I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of
life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my
blood this moment.


Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm?
to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful
joy?

All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power
can hold them back, they rush on.

Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come
dancing and pass away--colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in
endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up
and dies every moment.


That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus
casting coloured shadows on thy radiance--such is thy
_maya_.

Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and 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-coloured
tears and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again,
dreams break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self.