By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain’s side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
by T.S. Eliot
“If Time and Space, as sages say,
Are things which cannot be,
The sun which does not feel decay
No greater is than we.
So why, Love, should we ever pray
To live a century?
The butterfly that lives a day
Has lived eternity.
The flowers I gave thee when the dew
Was trembling on the vine,
Were withered ere the wild bee flew
To suck the eglantine,
So let us haste to pluck anew
Nor mourn to see them pine,
And though our days of love be few
Yet let them be divine.”
Here he was to get one more great disciple. Prabhakara was a brahmin.
He had a son who was a dumb boy. He appeared to be dull. But Shankara
felt that he was a yogi. Instead of asking the parents who had brought
the boy ‘Why is the boy like this? since when?’ he asked the boy
straightaway : “Who are you, my boy?” What else could be so sacred a
place as the one where the divine master was standing for the yogi to
break his silence? One who was dumb spoke in answer, “I am the eternal
self and not dead matter.” This was the simplest form of expressing the
nature of the self. By the grace of the master, the dull and the silent son
of that couple revealed himself to be a great and wise sage. The master
felt happy and taking him as disciple, named him Hastamalaka.
From: The Open Secret
by Tony Parsons
In presence I see that I have never chosen or done
anything, but have only been lived through.
And so I have never stopped the sea or moved
the sun or taken one step nearer or further away
from my birthright.
In accepting my divine helplessness I enjoy the
freedom of never having a past or future I could
call my own.
Some people ask, “Who chooses, who directs this
wonderful chaos?” But once in the arms of the beloved
nothing matters, and I can live as though I choose and
rejoice in the letting go.
By William Wordsworth
BEHOLD an emblem of our human mind
Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home,
Yet, like to eddying balls of foam
Within this whirlpool, they each other chase
Round and round, and neither find
An outlet nor a resting-place!
Stranger, if such disquietude be thine,
Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine.
By William Wordsworth
Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842
‘A POET’!–He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand–must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its ‘own’ divine vitality.
By George Santayana
O World, thou choosest not the better part!
It’s not wisdom to be only wise –
And on the inward vision close the eyes,
But it is wisdom to believe the heart.
Columbus found a world, and had no chart,
Save one that faith deciphered in the skies;
To trust the soul’s invincible surmise
Was all his science and his only art.
~ Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine
That lights the pathway but one step ahead
Across a void of mystery and dread.
Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine
By which alone the mortal heart is led
Unto the thinking of the thought divine.