pursue the vision that eludes me.I run across hills and dales, I wanderthrough nameless lands, because I amhunting for the golden stag.You come and buy in the marketand go back to your homes laden withgoods, but the spell of the homelesswinds has touched me I know not whenand where.I have no care in my heart;…
of their steps.Take to your bosom with a smilewhat is easy and simple and near.To-day is the festival of phantomsthat know not when they die.Let your laughter be but a meaning-less mirth like twinkles of light onthe ripples.Let your life lightly dance on theedges of Time like dew on the tip ofa leaf.Strike in chords…
Man is immortal; therefore he must die endlessly.For life is a creative idea;it can only find itself in changing forms.Man’s abiding happiness is not in getting anythingbut in giving himself up to what is greater than himself,to ideas which are larger than his individual life,the idea of his country,of humanity,of God.
O woman, thou camest for a moment to my side and touched me with the great mystery of the woman that there is in the heart of creation—she who ever gives back to God his own outflow of sweetness; who is the eternal love and beauty and youth; who dances in bubbling streams and sings…
unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity uponmany a fleeting moment of my life.And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature,I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory ofjoys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten.Thou didst not turn in…
With the dust and the water,With the fruit and the flower,With the All he is rushing forward.He is always on the surface,Tossed by the waves and dancing to the rhythmOf joy and suffering.The least loss makes him suffer,The least wound hurts him–Him I see from afar.That ‘I’ is not my real self;I am still within…
the smallest corner of this earth if only she were mine.
‘ Everything is Maya’.Angrily I replied:‘Here’s this sewing box on the table,that flower-pot on the terrace,this monogrammed hand-fan on the bed- –all these are real.’My mind said: ‘Yet, think again.’I rejoined: ‘ You better stop.Look at this storybook,the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves,signaling the rest is unread;if all these things are ‘Maya’,then why should ‘shey’…
flowing in its fullness, like a river in autumn flood, running withserene abandonment. My songs are one with my love, like the murmurof a stream, that sings with all its waves and current.
—such is thy Maya.Thou settest a barrier in thine own beingand then callest thy severed self in myriad notes.This thy self-separation has taken body in me.The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloued tearsand smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again,dreams break and form.In me is thy own defeat…
