Savitri Study Classes in Hindi

The little Mind is tied to little things: Its sense is but the spirit's outward touch, Half-waked in a world of dark Inconscience; It feels out for its beings and its forms Like one left fumbling in the ignorant Night.

One day the Face must burn out through the mask. Our ignorance is Wisdom's chrysalis, Our error weds new knowledge on its way, Its darkness is a blackened knot of light;

In a sun-blaze of joy and absolute power Above the Masters of the Ideal throne In sessions of secure felicity, In regions of illumined certitude.

All things are real that here are only dreams, In our unknown depths sleeps their reserve of truth, On our unreached heights they reign and come to us In thought and muse trailing their robes of light.

The mighty wardens of the ascending stair Who intercede with the all-creating Word, There waited for the pilgrim heaven-bound soul; Holding the thousand keys of the Beyond

Archmasons of the eternal Thaumaturge, Moulders and measurers of fragmented Space, They have made their plan of the concealed and known A dwelling-house for the invisible king.

A term was set for every eager Power Restraining its will to monopolise the world, A groove of bronze prescribed for force and act And shown to each moment its appointed place

Above stood ranked a subtle archangel race With larger lids and looks that searched the unseen.

In a sublimer and more daring soar To the wide summit of the triple stairs Bare steps climbed up like flaming rocks of gold Burning their way to a pure absolute sky.

Here the mind's wisdom stopped; it felt complete; For nothing more was left to think or know: In a spiritual zero it sat throned And took its vast silence for the Ineffable.

A new beginning flowers in word and laugh, A new charm brings back the old extreme delight: He is lost in her, she is his heaven here. Truth smiled upon the gracious golden game.

Above the spirit cased in mortal sense Are superconscious realms of heavenly peace, Below, the Inconscient's sullen dim abyss, Between, behind our life, the deathless Rose.

There are the imperishable beatitudes. A million lotuses swaying on one stem, World after coloured and ecstatic world Climbs towards some far unseen epiphany.

All there was an intense but partial light. In each a seraph-winged high-browed Idea United all knowledge by one master thought, Persuaded all action to one golden sense, All powers subjected to a single power And made a world where it could reign alone, An absolute ideal's perfect home.

An equal Cause of things, a lonely Seer And Master of its multitude of forms, It acted not but bore all thoughts and deeds, The witness Lord of Nature's myriad acts Consenting to the movements of her Force.

Then suddenly a luminous finger fell On all things seen or touched or heard or felt And showed his mind that nothing could be known; That must be reached from which all knowledge comes.

Existence' self was shadowed by a doubt; Almost it seemed a lotus-leaf afloat On a nude pool of cosmic Nothingness.

A hidden call to unforeseen delight In the summoning voice of one long-known, well-loved, But nameless to the unremembering mind, It led to rapture back the truant heart.