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At the Feet of The Mother

Man the Mediator

A dumb Inconscient drew life’s stumbling maze,
A night of all things, packed and infinite:
It made our consciousness a torch that plays
Between the Abyss and a supernal Light.

Our mind was framed a lens of segment sight
Piecing out inch by inch the world’s huge mass,
And reason a small hard theodolite
Measuring unreally the measureless ways.

Yet is the dark Inconscient whence came all
The self-same Power that shines on high unwon:
Our Night shall be a sky purpureal,
Our torch transmute to a vast godhead’s sun.

Rooted in mire heavenward man’s nature grows, —
His soul the dim bud of God’s flaming rose.


Notes on Text
Circa 1934. Two handwritten and one typed manuscript. Four handwritten manuscripts and one typed manuscript.

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To be spontaneous means not to think, organise, decide and make an effort to realise with the personal will.