April 16. 2014
All this life is marvellous and pain No more nor less than pleasure one might say, For all assumes its place when what we gain Is inner growth in stations on the way.
Loss is terrible to contemplate, We are consigned to it, our human tale, And yet it's joy towards which we gravitate And love our foundation stone although we fail
And fall at times and time and again must rise And bear the conflagrations of our past, For that which burns us also purifies And that which seems ephemeral shall last
Beyond the setting of ten thousand suns. Self-pity is the most piteous state, For oneness like a sacred river runs Carrying our betrayals and our hate
That we may find when all seems dead or lost The inner compass that we call the soul A millennium of births is a small cost For us to recognize the One in all.
Poems Undated (1727)
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