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At the Feet of The Mother


Since Thou hadst all eternity to amuse,
O sculptor of the living shapes of earth,
O dramatist of death and life and birth,
World-artist revelling in forms and hues,

Hast Thou shaped the marvel of the whirling spheres,
A scientist passing Nature through his tubes,
And played with numbers, measures, theorems, cubes,
O mathematician Mind that never errs,

Building a universe from Thy theories?
Protean is Thy spirit of delight,
Craftsman minute and architect of might,
World-adept of a thousand mysteries.

Or forged some deep Necessity, not Thy whim,
Fate and Inconscience and the net of Time?

Notes on Text
24 September 1939, revised 28 September. Three handwritten manuscripts, the first two entitled “The Conscious Inconscient”.

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When I ask you to be plastic in relation to the Divine, I mean not to resist the Divine with the rigidity of preconceived ideas and fixed principles.