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At the Feet of The Mother


In us is the thousandfold Spirit who is one,
An eternal thinker calm and great and wise,
A seer whose eye is an all-regarding sun,
A poet of the cosmic mysteries.

A critic Witness pieces everything
And binds the fragments in his brilliant sheaf;
A World-adventurer borne on Destiny’s wing
Gambles with death and triumph, joy and grief.

A king of greatness and a slave of love,
Host of the stars and guest in Nature’s inn,
A high spectator spirit throned above,
A pawn of passion in the game divine,

One who has made in sport the suns and seas
Mirrors in our being his immense caprice.

Notes on Text
20 September 1939. Three handwritten manuscripts, the second entitled “The Thousandfold One”.

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There is nothing sentimental in the true weeping that comes from the soul. All that you feel now is the blossoming of the psychic being in you and the growth of a real bhakti.