It is in like manner in Devachan, between the darkness of earth
and the light of spiritual self-consciousness, that the Master in
each of us draws in and absorbs the rarest and best of experiences,
love, self-forgetfulness, aspiration, and out of these distils the
subtle essence of wisdom, so that he who struggles in pain for his
fellows, when he wakens again on earth is endowed with the tradition
of that which we call self-sacrifice, but which is in reality the
proclamation of our own universal nature. There are yet vaster
correspondences, for so also we are told, when the seven worlds
are withdrawn, the great calm Shepherd of the Ages draws his misty
hordes together in the glimmering twilights of eternity, and as
they are penned within the awful Fold, the rays long separate are
bound into one, and life, and joy, and beauty disappear, to emerge
again after rest unspeakable on the morning of a New Day.

Now if the aim of the mystic be to fuse into one all moods made
separate by time, would not the daily harvesting of wisdom render
unnecessary the long Devachanic years? No second harvest could be
reaped from fields where the sheaves are already garnered. Thus
disregarding the fruits of action, we could work like those who
have made the Great Sacrifice, for whom even Nirvana is no resting
place. Worlds may awaken in nebulous glory, pass through their
phases of self-conscious existence and sink again to sleep, but
these tireless workers continue their age-long task of help. Their
motive we do not know, but in some secret depth of our being we
feel that there could be nothing nobler, and thinking this we have
devoted the twilight hour to the understanding of their nature.

--February 15, 1893