Earth in the balance seems to hang in space, A vision dimmed by sullen clouds of fate, Of her former glory lingers but a trace Amid the war-torn ravages of hate.
Her body cries and seeks the healing balm Her painful deep and bloody wounds to stem, Recover youth, joy and ageless calm To bear the weight of Heaven's diadem.
Love perhaps with swift enfolding wings Will wrap the world in a Mother's tenderness Heal the suppurating sores and stings That stifle in her the voice that would express
Eternal truth, all evil to forsake. For in the hour of divine largesse Bodies of a finer, subtler make Bearing the supramental consciousness
Shall manifest in matter's fixed domain, Impressingon our frail mortality The Godhead's seal; for man shall yet attain And sculpt from clay the living Deity.
Poems Undated (1727)
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