Pearls from the Poetry of William Wordsworth

From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850) 


                                That blessed mood,
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

                          ***

                                         And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime,
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thoughts,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

                          ***

                               Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; ‘tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.


From Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
Of young imagination have kept pure, 
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 
Howe’er disguised in its own majesty, 
Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt 
For any living thing, hath faculties 
Which he has never used; that thought with him 
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
The least of Nature’s works, one who might move 
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! 
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 
True dignity abides with him alone 
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
Can still suspect, and still revere himself 
In lowliness of heart.

From Ode: Intimations of Immortality

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
      Hath had elsewhere its setting,
         And cometh from afar:
      Not in entire forgetfulness,
      And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
         From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
         Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
         He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
         Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
         And by the vision splendid
         Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

The Lark Ascending by George Meredith

The Lark Ascending
by George Meredith (1828–1909)


   HE rises and begins to round,  
He drops the silver chain of sound  
Of many links without a break,  
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,  
All intervolv’d and spreading wide,  
Like water-dimples down a tide  
Where ripple ripple overcurls  
And eddy into eddy whirls;  
A press of hurried notes that run  
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet changingly the trills repeat  
And linger ringing while they fleet,  
Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,  
Who sits beside our inner springs, 
Too often dry for this he brings,  
Which seems the very jet of earth  
At sight of sun, her music’s mirth,  
As up he wings the spiral stair,
A song of light, and pierces air
With fountain ardor, fountain play,  
To reach the shining tops of day,  
And drink in everything discern’d  
An ecstasy to music turn’d,  
Impell’d by what his happy bill 
Disperses; drinking, showering still,  
Unthinking save that he may give  
His voice the outlet, there to live  
Renew’d in endless notes of glee,  
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know  
That he is joy, awake, aglow,  
The tumult of the heart to hear  
Through pureness filter’d crystal-clear,  
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight,  
Shrill, irreflective, unrestrain’d,  
Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustain’d  
Without a break, without a fall,  
Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
Perennial, quavering up the chord
Like myriad dews of sunny sward  
That trembling into fulness shine,  
And sparkle dropping argentine;  
Such wooing as the ear receives
From zephyr caught in choric leaves  
Of aspens when their chattering net  
Is flush’d to white with shivers wet;  
And such the water-spirit’s chime  
On mountain heights in morning’s prime,
Too freshly sweet to seem excess,  
Too animate to need a stress;  
But wider over many heads  
The starry voice ascending spreads,  
Awakening, as it waxes thin,
The best in us to him akin;  
And every face to watch him rais’d,  
Puts on the light of children prais’d,  
So rich our human pleasure ripes  
When sweetness on sincereness pipes,
Though nought be promis’d from the seas,  
But only a soft-ruffling breeze  
Sweep glittering on a still content,  
Serenity in ravishment.  
  
   For singing till his heaven fills,
‘T is love of earth that he instils,  
And ever winging up and up,  
Our valley is his golden cup,  
And he the wine which overflows  
To lift us with him as he goes:
The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine  
He is, the hills, the human line,  
The meadows green, the fallows brown,  
The dreams of labor in the town;  
He sings the sap, the quicken’d veins;
The wedding song of sun and rains  
He is, the dance of children, thanks  
Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,  
And eye of violets while they breathe;  
All these the circling song will wreathe, 
And you shall hear the herb and tree,  
The better heart of men shall see,  
Shall feel celestially, as long  
As you crave nothing save the song.  
Was never voice of ours could say
Our inmost in the sweetest way,  
Like yonder voice aloft, and link  
All hearers in the song they drink:  
Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,  
Our passion is too full in flood,
We want the key of his wild note  
Of truthful in a tuneful throat,  
The song seraphically free  
Of taint of personality,  
So pure that it salutes the suns
The voice of one for millions,  
In whom the millions rejoice  
For giving their one spirit voice.  
  
   Yet men have we, whom we revere,  
Now names, and men still housing here,
Whose lives, by many a battle-dint  
Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,  
Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet  
For song our highest heaven to greet:  
Whom heavenly singing gives us new, 
Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,  
From firmest base to farthest leap,  
Because their love of Earth is deep,  
And they are warriors in accord  
With life to serve and pass reward,
So touching purest and so heard
In the brain’s reflex of yon bird;  
Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,  
Through self-forgetfulness divine,  
In them, that song aloft maintains,
To fill the sky and thrill the plains  
With showerings drawn from human stores,  
As he to silence nearer soars,  
Extends the world at wings and dome,  
More spacious making more our home,
Till lost on his aërial rings  
In light, and then the fancy sings.


Following is the link to Janine Jansen's violin performance of Ralph Vaughan Williams'
splendid orchestral opus The Lark Ascending, inspired by George Meredith's poem:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbcuteYm-EA

A Reply To A Pessimist by Alfred Austin

A Reply To A Pessimist
By Alfred Austin (1835-1913)


O beautiful bright world! for ever young,
And now with Wisdom grafted on thy Spring,
Why do they slander thee with wailing tongue,
And lose the wealth of thy long harvesting?
Why do they say that thou art old and sad,
When, each fresh April, nightingales are glad,
And, each returning May, paired misselthrushes sing?

“Stripped of our dreams”! It is the sleeper then,
And not the shadowy corridors of night,
Fair visions have deserted. Hill and glen
As haunted are with wonder and delight
As when Endymion felt his eyelids kissed
By the moist moon, and through the morning mist
Foam-sandalled Venus flowered, immaculately white.

“No deities in sky, or sun, or moon!
No nymphs in grove or hill, in sea or stream”!
Why, I saw Artemis, this very noon,
Slip through the wood, a momentary gleam,
As satin as the sallow and as lithe,
And heard her eager sleuth-hounds baying blithe
Hard on the intruder’s heels, then rent Actaeon’s scream.

“Dead”! Hamadryads frisk in every wood,
In every pool elusive Naiads dwell;
Neptune’s dread voice, deep as when Troy still stood,
Is stored for us in every murmuring shell.
List! you will hear. But look, and you will find
Iris in rainbow, Hermes in the wind,
Delphi’s inspiring fount in every wayside well.

“No God! no Heaven”! The Gods you cannot kill,
Nor banish from their seats the sainted choirs.
The deep-toned organ is Cecilia’s still,
Still lamb-like Agnes quencheth wanton fires;
Stephen still sanctifies the martyr’s lot,
And many a maiden, though believing not,
Beholds Madonna’s face, then chastens her desires.

O beautiful bright world! for ever young,
With gifts for ever fresh. The seasons bring
All that they ever brought, since flowers first sprung
To deck the blushing consciousness of Spring.
Summer still makes us glad that we were born,
Our musings mellow with the mellowing corn,
And to our fireside loves wise Winter bids us cling.

What is there we have lost while hearts still beat,
While thought still burns? You cannot Man dethrone,
Time’s Heir-Apparent, from his sovran seat,
Assail his empire, or curtail its zone.
What though fledged Science fearlessly explore
New worlds of knowledge unsurmised of yore,
These fresh-found realms the Muse annexes to its own.

Thus have we Eld’s delights, our own as well:
Science is but Imagination’s slave;
Nor have “the antique fables” lost their spell,
Because we pierce the sky and plumb the wave.
For us the stars still sing, the moon still grieves,
The Fauns still rustle in the fallen leaves,
The Crucified is risen, and glorifies the grave.

Is Love less sweet because men loved of yore?
No, sweeter, stronger, with the ages’ growth.
Love’s long descent ennobles loving more,
And Helen’s falsehood fortifies one’s troth.
Bridging Time’s stream with life’s commanding span,
We stand upon the Present, and we scan
Future and Past, and seem to live along them both.

What have we lost? – we, who have gained so much:
The mind of man, familiar afar,
Hath upon sun, star, planet, laid its touch,
Lassoed the lightning, yoked it to his car.
Yet fear not lest that Knowledge should deflower
The awe that veils the inviolable Power,
Or that we e’er shall learn what, whence, and why we are.

‘Tis Mystery lends a meaning unto Life,
Never quite guessed; and simple souls, mean-while,
Find Paradise in mother, sister, wife,
The far one’s faithfulness, the near one’s smile.
So long as valour wins and beauty charms,
And lovers throb into each other’s arms,
How can you rail at life, reproach it and revile?

“Woe, agony, despair”! Woe, yes, there is,
Despair there need not be. Meek wisdom tries
To gain from grief an after-taste of bliss,
And sees a rainbow through its streaming eyes.
Nor, if I could, would I quite part with pain,
Lest pity die; – a loss, and not a gain.
‘Tis Pride alone despairs. Be humble, and be wise.

We bear no “burden of the bygone years.”
Their matter perishes, their soul survives,
Widening our hopes and narrowing our fears;
Shedding a shadowy charm athwart our lives,
Guiding our gropings, steadying our feet,
Like to an agëd nurse, that we may meet
The Future without dread, whatever rue arrives.

What if there were no Heaven? there is the Earth.
What if there were no goal? there is the race.
‘Tis unfulfilled desire that staves off dearth,
Sustains the march and stimulates the pace.
Where is the “prodigal waste of myriad lives”?
No life is wasted that loves, hopes, and strives,
And wears an eastward glow upon its fading face.

O beautiful bright world! Earth, Heaven, in one,
I thank thee for thy gifts: the gift of birth,
The unbought bounty of air, sky, sea, sun,
Seed-time and shower, harvest and mellow mirth;
For privilege to think, to feel, to strive;
I thank thee for the boon of being alive,
For Glory’s deathless dream, and Virtue’s matchless worth.

The Higher Pantheism by Lord Tennyson

“The Higher Pantheism”
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)


The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains, —
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns?

Is not the Vision He, tho’ He be not that which He seems?
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
 
Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb,
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him?
 
Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why,
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel “I am I”?
 
Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom,
Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendour and gloom.
 
Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet —
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
 
God is law, say the wise; O soul, and let us rejoice,
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice.
 
Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool,
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool;
 
And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see;
But if we could see and hear, this Vision—were it not He?

Pearls from Tagore's Songs of Kabīr

From The Songs of Kabīr (15th century)
Translated by Rabindranath Tagore

I. O servant, where dost thou seek Me? Lo! I am beside thee. I am neither in temple nor in mosque: I am neither in Kaaba nor in Kailash: Neither am I in rites and ceremonies, nor in Yoga and renunciation. If thou art a true seeker, thou shalt at once see Me: thou shalt meet Me in a moment of time. Kabīr says, “O Sadhu! God is the breath of all breath.”

III. O friend! hope for Him whilst you live, know whilst you live, understand whilst you live: for in life deliverance abides. If your bonds be not broken whilst living, what hope of deliverance in death? It is but an empty dream, that the soul shall have union with Him because it has passed from the body: If He is found now, He is found then, if not, we do but go to dwell in the City of Death. If you have union now, you shall have it hereafter. Bathe in the truth, know the true Master, have faith in the true Name! Kabīr says: “It is the Spirit of the quest which helps; I am the slave of this Spirit of the quest.”

IV. Do not go to the garden of flowers! O Friend! go not there; in your body is the garden of flowers. Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus, and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.

VI. The unstruck drum of Eternity is sounded within me; but my deaf ears cannot hear it. So long as man clamours for the I and the Mine, his works are as naught: when all love of the I and the Mine is dead, then the work of the Lord is done. For work has no other aim than the getting of knowledge: When that comes, then work is put away. The flower blooms for the fruit: when the fruit comes, the flower withers.

VII. When He Himself reveals Himself, God brings into manifestation that which can never be seen. As the seed is in the plant, as the shade is in the tree, as the void is in the sky, as infinite forms are in the void – so from beyond the Infinite, the Infinite comes; and from the Infinite the finite extends. The creature is in God, and God is in the creature: they are ever distinct, yet ever united. He Himself is the manifold form, the infinite space; He is the breath, the word, and the meaning. He Himself is the limit and the limitless: and beyond both the limited and the limitless is He, the Pure Being.

IX. O how may I ever express that secret word? O how can I say He is not like this, and He is like that? If I say that He is within me, the universe is ashamed: if I say that He is without me, it is falsehood. He makes the inner and the outer worlds to be indivisibly one; the conscious and the unconscious, both are His footstools. He is neither manifest nor hidden, He is neither revealed nor unrevealed: There are no words to tell that which He is.

XI. My heart must cleave to my Lover; I must withdraw my veil, and meet Him with all my body: Mine eyes must perform the ceremony of the lamps of love. Kabīr says: “Listen to me, friend: he understands who loves. If you feel not love’s longing for your Beloved One, it is vain to adorn your body, vain to put unguent on your eyelids.”

XII. Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale. From what land do you come, O Swan? to what shore will you fly? Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek? Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise, follow me! There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more. There the woods of spring are abloom, and the fragrant scent “He is I” is borne on the wind: there the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy.

XIII. O Lord Increate, who will serve Thee? Every votary offers his worship to the God of his own creation: each day he receives service – none seek Him, the Perfect: God, the Indivisible Lord.

XVII.i The devout seeker is he who mingles in his heart the double currents of love and detachment, like the mingling of the streams of Ganges and Jumna; In his heart the sacred water flows day and night; and thus the round of births and deaths is brought to an end. Behold what wonderful rest is in the Supreme Spirit! and he enjoys it, who makes himself meet for it. Held by the cords of love, the swing of the Ocean of Joy sways to and fro; and a mighty sound breaks forth in song. Only a few pure souls know of its true delight. Music is all around it, and there the heart partakes of the joy of the Infinite Sea. Kabīr says: “Dive thou into that Ocean of sweetness: thus let all errors of life and of death flee away.”

XVII.ii They have sung of Him as infinite and unattainable: but I in my meditations have seen Him without sight. That is indeed the sorrowless land, and none know the path that leads there: Only he who is on that path has surely transcended all sorrow. Wonderful is that land of rest, to which no merit can win; it is the wise who has seen it, it is the wise who has sung of it. This is the Ultimate Word: but can any express its marvellous savour? He who has savoured it once, he knows what joy it can give.

XIX. O my heart! the Supreme Spirit, the great Master, is near you: wake, oh wake! Run to the feet of your Beloved: for your Lord stands near to your head. You have slept for unnumbered ages; this morning will you not wake?

XX. To what shore would you cross, O my heart? there is no traveller before you, there is no road: Where is the movement, where is the rest, on that shore? There is no water; no boat, no boatman, is there; there is not so much as a rope to tow the boat, nor a man to draw it. No earth, no sky, no time, no thing, is there: no shore, no ford! There, there is neither body nor mind: and where is the place that shall still the thirst of the soul? You shall find naught in that emptiness. Be strong, and enter into your own body: for there your foothold is firm. Consider it well, O my heart! go not elsewhere, Kabīr says: “Put all imaginations away, and stand fast in that which you are.”

XXI. Lamps burn in every house, O blind one! and you cannot see them. One day your eyes shall suddenly be opened, and you shall see: and the fetters of death will fall from you. There is nothing to say or to hear, there is nothing to do: it is he who is living, yet dead, who shall never die again.

XXV. My Lord hides Himself, and my Lord wonderfully reveals Himself: my Lord has encompassed me with hardness, and my Lord has cast down my limitations. My Lord brings to me words of sorrow and words of joy, and He Himself heals their strife. I will offer my body and mind to my Lord: I will give up my life, but never can I forget my Lord!

XXXII. Dance, my heart! dance today with joy. The strains of love fill the days and the nights with music, and the world is listening to its melodies: Mad with joy, life and death dance to the rhythm of this music. The hills and the sea and the earth dance. The world of man dances in laughter and tears. Why put on the robe of the monk, and live aloof from the world in lonely pride? Behold! my heart dances in the delight of a hundred arts; and the Creator is well pleased.

XXXIX. O friend! this body is His lyre; He tightens its strings, and draws from it the melody of God. If the strings snap and the keys slacken, then to dust must this instrument of dust return: Kabīr says: “None but God can evoke its melodies.”

XL.i He is dear to me indeed who can call back the wanderer to his home. In the home is the true union, in the home is enjoyment of life: why should I forsake my home and wander in the forest? If God helps me to realize truth, verily I will find both bondage and deliverance in home.

XL.ii He is dear to me indeed who has power to dive deep into God; whose mind loses itself with ease in His contemplation. He is dear to me who knows God, and can dwell on His supreme truth in meditation; and who can play the melody of the Infinite by uniting love and renunciation in life. Kabīr says: “The home is the abiding place; in the home is reality; the home helps to attain Him Who is real. So stay where you are, and all things shall come to you in time.”

XLI. O Sadhu! the simple union is the best. Since the day when I met with my Lord, there has been no end to the sport of our love. I shut not my eyes, I close not my ears, I do not mortify my body; I see with eyes open and smile, and behold His beauty everywhere: I utter His Name, and whatever I see, it reminds me of Him; whatever I do, it becomes His worship.

XLII. There is nothing but water at the holy bathing places; and I know that they are useless, for I have bathed in them. The images are all lifeless, they cannot speak; I know, for I have cried aloud to them. The Purana and the Koran are mere words; lifting up the curtain, I have seen. Kabīr gives utterance to the words of experience; and he knows very well that all other things are untrue.

XLIII. I laugh when I hear that the fish in the water is thirsty: You do not see that the Real is in your home, and you wander from forest to forest listlessly! Here is the truth! Go where you will, to Benares or Mathura; if you do not find your soul, the world is unreal to you.

XLVII. There is a strange tree, which stands without roots and bears fruits without blossoming; it has no branches and no leaves, it is lotus all over. Two birds sing there; one is the Master, and the other the disciple: the disciple chooses the manifold fruits of life and tastes them, and the Master beholds him in joy. What Kabīr says is hard to understand: “The bird is beyond seeking, yet it is most clearly visible. The Formless is in the midst of all forms. I sing the glory of forms.”

XLVIII. I have stilled my restless mind, and my heart is radiant: for in Thatness I have seen beyond That-ness. In company I have seen the Companion Himself. Living in bondage, I have set myself free: I have broken away from the clutch of all narrowness. Kabīr says: “I have attained the unattainable, and my heart is coloured with the colour of love.”

XLIX. That which you see is not: and for that which is, you have no words. Unless you see, you believe not: what you are told you cannot accept. He who is discerning knows by the word; and the ignorant stands gaping. Some contemplate the Formless, and others meditate on form: but the wise man knows that God is beyond both. That beauty of His is not seen of the eye: that metre of His is not heard of the ear. Kabīr says: “He who has found both love and renunciation never descends to death.”

L. The flute of the Infinite is played without ceasing, and its sound is love: when love renounces all limits, it reaches truth. How widely the fragrance spreads! It has no end, nothing stands in its way. The form of this melody is bright like a million suns: incomparably sounds the vina, the vina of the notes of truth.

LI. Dear friend, I am eager to meet my Beloved! My youth has flowered, and the pain of separation from Him troubles my breast. I am wandering yet in the alleys of knowledge without purpose, but I have received His news in these alleys of knowledge. I have a letter from my Beloved: in this letter is an unutterable message, and now my fear of death is done away. Kabīr says: “O my loving friend! I have got for my gift the Deathless One.”

LIV. Have you not heard the tune which the Unstruck Music is playing? In the midst of the chamber the harp of joy is gently and sweetly played; and where is the need of going without to hear it? If you have not drunk of the nectar of that One Love, what boots it though you should purge yourself of all stains? The Qadi is searching the words of the Koran, and instructing others: but if his heart be not steeped in that love, what does it avail, though he be a teacher of men? The Yogi dyes his garments with red: but if he knows naught of that colour of love, what does it avail though his garments be tinted? Kabīr says: “Whether I be in the temple or the balcony, in the camp or in the flower garden, I tell you truly that every moment my Lord is taking His delight in me.”

LV. Subtle is the path of love! Therein there is no asking and no not-asking, there one loses one’s self at His feet, there one is immersed in the joy of the seeking: plunged in the deeps of love as the fish in the water. The lover is never slow in offering his head for his Lord’s service. Kabīr declares the secret of this love.

LVI. He is the real Sadhu, who can reveal the form of the Formless to the vision of these eyes: who teaches the simple way of attaining Him, that is other than rites or ceremonies: who does not make you close the doors, and hold the breath, and renounce the world: who makes you perceive the Supreme Spirit wherever the mind attaches itself: who teaches you to be still in the midst of all your activities. Ever immersed in bliss, having no fear in his mind, he keeps the spirit of union in the midst of all enjoyments. The infinite dwelling of the Infinite Being is everywhere: in earth, water, sky, and air: firm as the thunderbolt, the seat of the seeker is established above the void. He who is within is without: I see Him and none else.

LIX. O man, if thou dost not know thine own Lord, whereof art thou so proud? Put thy cleverness away: mere words shall never unite thee to Him. Do not deceive thyself with the witness of the Scriptures: Love is something other than this, and he who has sought it truly has found it.

LXI. When at last you are come to the ocean of happiness, do not go back thirsty. Wake, foolish man! for Death stalks you. Here is pure water before you; drink it at every breath. Kabīr says: “Listen to me, brother! The nest of fear is broken. Not for a moment have you come face to face with the world: you are weaving your bondage of falsehood, your words are full of deception: with the load of desires which you hold on your head, how can you be light?” Kabīr says: “Keep within you truth, detachment, and love.”

LXIII. Why so impatient, my heart? He who watches over birds, beasts, and insects, He who cared for you whilst you were yet in your mother’s womb, shall He not care for you now that you are come forth? Oh my heart, how could you turn from the smile of your Lord and wander so far from Him? You have left Your Beloved and are thinking of others: and this is why all your work is in vain.

LXV. It is not the austerities that mortify the flesh which are pleasing to the Lord; when you leave off your clothes and kill your senses, you do not please the Lord: the man who is kind and who practises righteousness, who remains passive amidst the affairs of the world, who considers all creatures on earth as his own self, He attains the Immortal Being, the true God is ever with him. Kabīr says: “He attains the true Name whose words are pure, and who is free from pride and conceit.”

LXVI. The Yogi dyes his garments, instead of dyeing his mind in the colours of love: He sits within the temple of the Lord, leaving God to worship a stone. He pierces holes in his ears, he has a great beard and matted locks, he looks like a goat: He goes forth into the wilderness, killing all his desires, and turns himself into an eunuch: He shaves his head and dyes his garments; he reads the Gita and becomes a mighty talker. Kabīr says: “You are going to the doors of death, bound hand and foot!”

LXVII. I do not know what manner of God is mine. The Mullah cries aloud to Him: and why? Is your Lord deaf? The subtle anklets that ring on the feet of an insect when it moves are heard of Him. Tell your beads, paint your forehead with the mark of your God, and wear matted locks long and showy: but a deadly weapon is in your heart, and how shall you have God?

LXVIII. I hear the melody of His flute, and I cannot contain myself: the flower blooms, though it is not spring; and already the bee has received its invitation. The sky roars and the lightning flashes, the waves arise in my heart, the rain falls; and my heart longs for my Lord. Where the rhythm of the world rises and falls, thither my heart has reached: there the hidden banners are fluttering in the air. Kabīr says: “My heart is dying, though it lives.”

LXIX. If God be within the mosque, then to whom does this world belong? If Ram be within the image which you find upon your pilgrimage, then who is there to know what happens without? Hari is in the East: Allah is in the West. Look within your heart, for there you will find both Karim and Ram; All the men and women of the world are His living forms. Kabīr is the child of Allah and of Ram: He is my Master, He is my Pir.

LXX. He who is meek and contented, he who has an equal vision, whose mind is filled with the fullness of acceptance and of rest; He who has seen Him and touched Him, he is freed from all fear and trouble. To him the perpetual thought of God is like sandal paste smeared on the body, to him nothing else is delight: His work and his rest are filled with music: he sheds abroad the radiance of love. Kabīr says: “Touch His feet, who is one and indivisible, immutable and peaceful; who fills all vessels to the brim with joy, and whose form is love.”

LXXI. Go thou to the company of the good, where the Beloved One has His dwelling place: take all thy thoughts and love and instruction from thence. Let that assembly be burnt to ashes where His Name is not spoken! Tell me, how couldst thou hold a wedding-feast, if the bridegroom himself were not there? Waver no more, think only of the Beloved; Set not thy heart on the worship of other gods, there is no worth in the worship of other masters. Kabīr deliberates and says: “Thus thou shalt never find the Beloved!”

LXXII. The jewel is lost in the mud, and all are seeking for it; some look for it in the east, and some in the west; some in the water and some amongst stones. But the servant Kabīr has appraised it at its true value, and has wrapped it with care in the end of the mantle of his heart.

LXXIV. O my heart! you have not known all the secrets of this city of love: in ignorance you came, and in ignorance you return. O my friend, what have you done with this life? You have taken on your head the burden heavy with stones, and who is to lighten it for you? Your Friend stands on the other shore, but you never think in your mind how you may meet with Him: the boat is broken, and yet you sit ever upon the bank; and thus you are beaten to no purpose by the waves. The servant Kabīr asks you to consider; who is there that shall befriend you at the last? You are alone, you have no companion: you will suffer the consequences of your own deeds.

LXXVI.i Open your eyes of love, and see Him who pervades this world I consider it well, and know that this is your own country. When you meet the true Master, He will awaken your heart; He will tell you the secret of love and detachment, and then you will know indeed that He transcends this universe. This world is the City of Truth, its maze of paths enchants the heart: we can reach the goal without crossing the road, such is the sport unending. Where the ring of manifold joys ever dances about Him, there is the sport of Eternal Bliss. When we know this, then all our receiving and renouncing is over; thenceforth the heat of having shall never scorch us more.

LXXVI.ii He is the Ultimate Rest unbounded: He has spread His form of love throughout all the world. From that Ray which is Truth, streams of new forms are perpetually springing: and He pervades those forms. All the gardens and groves and bowers are abounding with blossom; and the air breaks forth into ripples of joy. There the swan plays a wonderful game, there the Unstruck Music eddies around the Infinite One; there in the midst the Throne of the Unheld is shining, whereon the great Being sits – millions of suns are shamed by the radiance of a single hair of His body.

LXXVI.iii On the harp of the road what true melodies are being sounded! its notes pierce the heart: there the Eternal Fountain is playing its endless life-streams of birth and death. They call Him Emptiness who is the Truth of truths, in Whom all truths are stored! There within Him creation goes forward, which is beyond all philosophy; for philosophy cannot attain to Him: there is an endless world, O my Brother! and there is the Nameless Being, of whom naught can be said. Only he knows it who has reached that region: it is other than all that is heard and said. No form, no body, no length, no breadth is seen there: how can I tell you that which it is? He comes to the Path of the Infinite on whom the grace of the Lord descends: he is freed from births and deaths who attains to Him. Kabīr says: “It cannot be told by the words of the mouth, it cannot be written on paper: it is like a dumb person who tastes a sweet thing – how shall it be ex-plained?”

LXXVII. O my heart! let us go to that country where dwells the Beloved, the ravisher of my heart! There Love is filling her pitcher from the well, yet she has no rope wherewith to draw water; there the clouds do not cover the sky, yet the rain falls down in gentle showers: O bodiless one! do not sit on your doorstep; go forth and bathe yourself in that rain! There it is ever moonlight and never dark; and who speaks of one sun only? that land is illuminate with the rays of a million suns.

LXXVIII. Kabīr says: “O Sadhu! hear my deathless words. If you want your own good, examine and consider them well. You have estranged yourself from the Creator, of whom you have sprung: you have lost your reason, you have bought death. All doctrines and all teachings are sprung from Him, from Him they grow: know this for certain, and have no fear. Hear from me the tidings of this great truth! Whose name do you sing, and on whom do you meditate? O, come forth from this entanglement! He dwells at the heart of all things, so why take refuge in empty desolation? If you place the Master at a distance from you, then it is but the distance that you honour: If indeed the Master be far away, then who is it else that is creating this world? When you think that He is not here, then you wander further and further away, and seek Him in vain with tears. Where He is far off, there He is unattainable: where He is near, He is very bliss. Kabīr says: “Lest His servant should suffer pain He pervades him through and through.” Know yourself then, O Kabīr; for He is in you from head to foot. Sing with gladness, and keep your seat unmoved within your heart.

LXXIX. I am neither pious nor ungodly, I live neither by law nor by sense, I am neither a speaker nor hearer, I am neither a servant nor master, I am neither bond nor free, I am neither detached nor attached. I am far from none: I am near to none. I shall go neither to hell nor to heaven. I do all works; yet I am apart from all works. Few comprehend my meaning: he who can comprehend it, he sits unmoved. Kabīr seeks neither to establish nor to destroy.

LXXX. The true Name is like none other name! The distinction of the Conditioned from the Unconditioned is but a word: The Unconditioned is the seed, the Conditioned is the flower and the fruit. Knowledge is the branch, and the Name is the root. Look, and see where the root is: happiness shall be yours when you come to the root. The root will lead you to the branch, the leaf, the flower, and the fruit: It is the encounter with the Lord, it is the attainment of bliss, it is the reconciliation of the Conditioned and the Unconditioned.

LXXXIII. The harp gives forth murmurous music; and the dance goes on without hands and feet. It is played without fingers, it is heard without ears: for He is the ear, and He is the listener. The gate is locked, but within there is fragrance: and there the meeting is seen of none. The wise shall understand it.

LXXXV. My heart cries aloud for the house of my lover; the open road and the shelter of a roof are all one to her who has lost the city of her husband. My heart finds no joy in anything: my mind and my body are distraught. His palace has a million gates, but there is a vast ocean between it and me: How shall I cross it, O friend? for endless is the outstretching of the path. How wondrously this lyre is wrought! When its strings are rightly strung, it maddens the heart: but when the keys are broken and the strings are loosened, none regard it more.

LXXXVI. Serve your God, who has come into this temple of life! Do not act the part of a madman, for the night is thickening fast. He has awaited me for countless ages, for love of me He has lost His heart: yet I did not know the bliss that was so near to me, for my love was not yet awake. But now, my Lover has made known to me the meaning of the note that struck my ear: now, my good fortune is come. Kabīr says: “Behold! how great is my good fortune! I have received the unending caress of my Beloved!”

LXXXVIII. This day is dear to me above all other days, for today the Beloved Lord is a guest in my house; my chamber and my courtyard are beautiful with His presence. My longings sing His Name, and they are become lost in His great beauty: I wash His feet, and I look upon His Face; and I lay before Him as an offering my body, my mind, and all that I have. What a day of gladness is that day in which my Beloved, who is my treasure, comes to my house! All evils fly from my heart when I see my Lord. “My love has touched Him; my heart is longing for the Name which is Truth.” Thus sings Kabīr, the servant of all servants.

LXXXIX. Is there any wise man who will listen to that solemn music which arises in the sky? For He, the Source of all music, makes all vessels full fraught, and rests in fullness Himself. He who is in the body is ever athirst, for he pursues that which is in part: but ever there wells forth deeper and deeper the sound “He is this – this is He”; fusing love and renunciation into one. Kabīr says: “O brother! that is the Primal Word.”

XC. To whom shall I go to learn about my Beloved? Kabīr says: “As you never may find the forest if you ignore the tree, so He may never be found in abstractions.”

XCI. I have learned the Sanskrit language, so let all men call me wise: but where is the use of this, when I am floating adrift, and parched with thirst, and burning with the heat of desire? To no purpose do you bear on your head this load of pride and vanity. Kabīr says: “Lay it down in the dust, and go forth to meet the Beloved. Address Him as your Lord.”

XCII. The woman who is parted from her lover spins at the spinning wheel. The city of the body arises in its beauty; and within it the palace of the mind has been built. The wheel of love revolves in the sky, and the seat is made of the jewels of knowledge: what subtle threads the woman weaves, and makes them fine with love and reverence! Kabīr says: “I am weaving the garland of day and night. When my Lover comes and touches me with His feet, I shall offer Him my tears.”

XCIII. Beneath the great umbrella of my King millions of suns and moons and stars are shining! He is the Mind within my mind: He is the Eye within mine eye. Ah, could my mind and eyes be one! Could my love but reach to my Lover! Could but the fiery heat of my heart be cooled! Kabīr says: “When you unite love with the Lover, then you have love’s perfection.”

XCIV. O Sadhu! my land is a sorrowless land. I cry aloud to all, to the king and the beggar, the emperor and the fakir – Whosoever seeks for shelter in the Highest, let all come and settle in my land! Let the weary come and lay his burdens here! So live here, my brother, that you may cross with ease to that other shore. It is a land without earth or sky, without moon or stars; for only the radiance of Truth shines in my Lord’s Durbar. Kabīr says: “O beloved brother! naught is essential save Truth.”

XCVII. O servant! put false pride away, and seek for Him within you. A million suns are ablaze with light, the sea of blue spreads in the sky, the fever of life is stilled, and all stains are washed away; when I sit in the midst of that world. Hark to the unstruck bells and drums! Take your delight in love! Rains pour down without water, and the rivers are streams of light. One Love it is that pervades the whole world, few there are who know it fully: they are blind who hope to see it by the light of reason, that reason which is the cause of separation – the House of Reason is very far away!

XCIX. Where they sing His praise, there I live; when He moves, I walk before Him: my heart yearns for my Beloved. The infinite pilgrimage lies at His feet, a million devotees are seated there. Kabīr says: “The Lover Himself reveals the glory of true love.”

First published in 1915

Pearls from Tagore's Stray Birds

Stray Birds

by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

3. The world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover. It becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal.

9. Once we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.

13. Listen, my heart, to the whispers of the world with which it makes love to you.

18. What you are you do not see, what you see is your shadow.

28. O Beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror.

33. Life finds its wealth by the claims of the world, and its worth by the claims of love.

35. The bird wishes it were a cloud. The cloud wishes it were a bird.

48. The stars are not afraid to appear like fireflies.

51. Your idol is shattered in the dust to prove that God's dust is greater than your idol.

57. We come nearest to the great when we are great in humility.

59. Never be afraid of the moments — thus sings the voice of the everlasting.

70. Where is the fountain that throws up these flowers in a ceaseless outbreak of ecstasy?

75. We read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.

77. Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.

82. Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.

88. He who wants to do good knocks at the gate; he who loves finds the gate open.

86. “How far are you from me, O Fruit?” “I am hidden in your heart, O Flower.”

90. In darkness the One appears as uniform; in the light the One appears as manifold.

93. Power said to the world, “You are mine.” The world kept it prisoner on her throne.
Love said to the world, “I am thine.” The world gave it the freedom of her house.

95. Be still, my heart, these great trees are prayers.

96. The noise of the moment scoffs at the music of the Eternal.

107. The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.

110. Man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamour of silence.

133. The leaf becomes flower when it loves. The flower becomes fruit when it worships.

151. God's great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm.

158. Power takes as ingratitude the writhings of its victims.

170. I have dipped the vessel of my heart into this silent hour; it has filled with love.

184. He who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good.

190. Sit still my heart, do not raise your dust. Let the world find its way to you.

203. The day, with the noise of this little earth, drowns the silence of all worlds.

209. Maiden, your simplicity, like the blueness of the lake, reveals your depth of truth.

235. Do not say, “It is morning,” and dismiss it with a name of yesterday.
See it for the first time as a new-born child that has no name.

247. “How may I sing to thee and worship, O Sun?” asked the little flower.
“By the simple silence of thy purity,” answered the sun.

248. Man is worse than an animal when he is an animal.

254. The real with its meaning read wrong and emphasis misplaced is the unreal.

258. The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.

282. I shall die again and again to know that life is inexhaustible.

285. They light their own lamps and sing their own words in their temples.
But the birds sing thy name in thine own morning light, — for thy name is joy.

286. Lead me in the centre of thy silence to fill my heart with songs.

287. Let them live who choose in their own hissing world of fireworks. 
My heart longs for thy stars, my God.

291. Some day I shall sing to thee in the sunrise of some other world,
“I have seen thee before in the light of the earth, in the love of man.”

295. Truth seems to come with its final word; and the final word gives birth to its next.

296. Blessed is he whose fame does not outshine his truth.

303. God kisses the finite in his love and man the infinite.

313. We shall know some day that death can never rob us of that which our soul has gained,
for her gains are one with herself.

315. When all the strings of my life will be tuned, my Master,
then at every touch of thine will come out the music of love.

326. Let this be my last word, that I trust in thy love.

Translated from Bengali to English by the author

Published in 1916

The Dual Image by William Sharpe

The Dual Image, a Mystical Poem of Life
by William Sharpe (1855-1905)


So mused a traveler on the earthly plane
Being in himself a type of all mankind.
For aspirations dim at first possessed
Him only, rising vaguely in his dreams,
Till in ripe years his early musings changed
To inspiration and the light of soul.
Then vision came, and in the light he saw
What he had hoped now openly revealed;
And much besides—the inmost soul of things,
And “beauty” as the crown of life itself,
Ineffable, transcending mortal form;
For robed in light, no longer fantasy,
Before his gaze the true ‘ideal’ stood,
Sublimely fair, beyond conception, clothed
In beauty and divinest symmetry.
Yet pined he not like him of Latmos when
In dreaming ecstasy, upon the hills
Beneath the moon, he saw his love unveiled;
For well he knew the crowning of his life
Was in that vision and would be fulfilled. 
Nay, was fulfilled, for henceforth by his side
A radiant being stood, his guiding light
And polar star, that as a magnet held
Him in the hold of ever-enduring love!
But how to describe this being henceforth his? 
What words can tell what words transcend, but say
That she was fair beyond all human thought?
For who could paint those features and that form
So exquisitely moulded that no art
Could reach them, or convey in any mode
The smile upon those rosy lips or catch
And give the full expression of those eyes,
So wonderful, half veiled beneath the sweep
Of soft and curving lashes, that enhanced
Beyond describing the effect that flowed
From out the liquid depths of those full orbs,
The founts of love so full of smouldering fire
And passion, yet so tender and so chaste?
Her every movement, too, so perfect, seemed
Like nature heightened by unconscious art, 
And all her bearing gentleness itself;
For not that majesty that overawes—
That high, imperious consciousness of worth,
That makes the lowly shrink abashed—was hers,
But in its stead was all the winning grace
And sweetness that immortal Love could add
To beautify its shrine and make thereof
A fitting habitation for itself:
For bending forward with that wondrous look,
So inexpressible, she seemed to say: 
“Thou art mine own, mine equal and my spouse,
My complement, without whom I were nought;
So in mine eyes thou art far more fair than I,
For in thee only is my life fulfilled.”
Then added, in harmonious voice, aloud: 
“Thou long hast thought upon life's mystery,
Its vast, eternally recurring rounds
Of rest and rebirth and activity,
And sought therein the passage of the soul
From light to dark, from dark to light again. 
Come then with me, and we will see in part
The latter in its human phase unveiled.”
So saying, with her presence she endowed
Him with new senses, faculties and powers,
That far surpassed the limits of the old.


First published in 1896

Pearls from Mary Watkins' Waking Dreams

From Waking Dreams (1984)

by Mary Watkins


We have skillfully tried to strain the mythical from the scientific, the imaginary from the real, metaphor from matter. We have used science to tell us just what “reality” really is and we have taken our scissors of reason and accordingly trimmed into the waste basket the apparently superfluous and contradictory. We have chased the gods from the stones, the animals, and the heavens in the hope that we will be left with a clear and modern idea of matter and life. Knowledge has brandished the censors of “ridiculous,” “superstitious,” “unscientific,” “imaginary” and “unreal” at Myth as he has disrobed her and believed himself superior. Myth leaves him standing there, coat in hand, as she hastily ducks within his closet of wraps. She has heard his sensors before, at times of transition between one dominant mythic mode and a newly arising way of understanding.

       Metaphor is denied its province in the material world. The experience to which it refers has filled one shape, one particular group of metaphors, retreats before the threatening force of the prevailing doubt, fathered by Knowledge, and lies so seemingly barren. In time, however, it begins to arise to consciousness and animate a new form which does not conflict with what is known. Myth reappears, often unrecognized as such, in the dress of the day. More often than not she even ducks beneath the coat-tails of Knowledge (where he scarcely ever looks). To see her peeking out, while he smirks with the success of a victor, betrays the fact that a fundamental misunderstanding and confusion is prevalent, to which Knowledge (as well as his students, we ourselves) is usually so blind.

       Our reasonable friend has confused the world of Myth, of the imaginal, with that of his own. When she has spoken he has laughed and snickered, if he has not more vehemently shut her up. He knows that there are not spirits in rocks and dragons in caves. She tries to explain herself, as well as the intimate connection, and paradoxical autonomy her world has to his. He wants nothing to do with her. Although he can make her appear foolish his actions of scandalizing and ignoring her do not make her disappear. He forgets her and proceeds in ignorance of her reality. He thinks that Myth is merely incorrectly describing the material world. When he studies aspects of phenomena in his world and draws his conclusions about them, he discards all that Myth has surrounded these same aspects with and which do not concur with his views. 

     He picks an argument where there is no need. Myth speaks about an imaginal reality using aspects of his material reality. Her statements are not meant to be mere literal, concrete descriptions and opinions about this world. She wants to convey her reality. When he takes some aspect away from her, she must choose others. The more he denies her expressions the more she must use his own words. Though he can discredit her means of expression and make her look foolish to his friends he cannot destroy that which she seeks to express. His inability to distinguish between the concrete level of the symbol and what the symbol refers to leaves him open to her use. It leaves her totally misunderstood. She hides in what and how he studies and her reality begins to come from his own mouth, although he does not hear her inclination. 

     In our confusion we, as students of Knowledge, have tried to separate the scientific from the metaphorical, matter from spirit, behavior from psyche, the real from the imaginal. They pretend to yield, and in so doing trick us. They have not separated at all, these lovers. What we find flowing down our sinks is our awareness of our participation in myth at every moment of our being in reality, of psyche in our every action. We mistake our confusion for straightforwardness and clarity. What we have packed away in those boxes is not the imagination and the mythical but our recognition, acceptance and conscious valuing of it. 

       We live out the imagination in everything and yet we are against the very notion of it. In our confusion we lose something. Our actions are “nothing but.” Life can be found boring, interminable and most unkind in all the harshness of its “reality.” And yet it is the crushing of a dream that makes us cry; the refusing of a wish that makes us feel hopeless. (4-5)

***

The psyche reveals herself in the form of images, for that is her experience. If we wish to befriend her, to love her, we must take great care in how we react to her, as her life speaks of itself to us. Our relation to the image, therefore, becomes all important. 

       When a friend tells us of an experience, how do we move in relation to it? How do we hope others will respond to our revealing of experiences? We do not want to be interrupted in our story; nor do we wish to be rushed. When our experience has moved us we are connected to it through the telling. It lives as we tell it, especially if the other person is receptive. If the other is not, we begin to say words but are no longer connected to them. The telling has become dead. We wish we had not begun. 

       Every detail has a place. We seldom find someone who allows us to tell it all out. The other feels a need to break in – to label, to judge, to advise. They wish to be helpful. But we want them to help us spin it all out. We desire them to question every point – not to bring it into question, but to make us elaborate on each element. [...] 

      There is a tendency for people to think they understand what the other is talking about. They easily simplify it and can thereby equate it with their own or with concepts they have acquired. Comparisons fly. The subtle differences are lost. One loses the chance to see the other’s experience more in terms of itself than in terms of oneself. This makes us keep seeing whatever it is we are already seeing, over and over. We hear something unknown in terms of something known and, in doing so, we learn nothing. Now, you may argue, we can only know in terms of the known. That is not as true as it sounds. An experience provides its own terms for its understanding. The more our friend elaborates on his or her story the more a structure becomes evident. If we have refrained from being absorbed in our means of structuring and interpreting, his or her structure strikes us. It has itself a context, a frame. It lends its own hints as to weight and significance. 

       If it is a difficult experience they are trying to tell us, we are often driven by our own anxieties to do something about it: to relieve them (i.e. to sever their connection with it and thereby ours) or to draw from the complexity a moral or conclusion, to become pragmatic – even if those were not the terms in which the other is speaking. We may take their experience from their hands, and put it to the light of day to examine just how it can be changed for the better. Where would they have to go? What could we do? We try to see how such a thing developed historically (even if it was not their concern) in order, perhaps, to see how it can be avoided in the future, and where the blame lies in the past. Perhaps we are the essence of friendliness and kindly deeds. But though the treatment is outlined, the progress assessed, the history completed and the goals insighted, that possibility (always lingering, always fragile) between two people is mercilessly killed, unknowingly, quietly. 

       What is it that our story wants? It keeps coming to the tip of our tongue. It rushes into empty spaces and flees from unhearing ears. […] When the other ceases to offer hope or advice, when they listen to our tale for no ulterior motive of their own, when they are still and can yet be moved... then something happens. The experience we are recounting connects us. It lives with us. It is what at that one moment makes us live. It thereby becomes real in a new sense. 

       So it is between the image and myself. I can do a thousand things wrong in trying to listen to it. I run off into interpretations, amplifications, ramifications, ways to change, to compare, to cure, to care. And with each of these I risk losing the possibility between us. The imaginal’s experience itself is lost to me. I cannot sit still with it: refraining from gaining control over the situation, ceasing to impress it with my understanding and knowledge, becoming willing to stay with it even when it may begin to stink to my civilized nose. 

       The longer one sits with the other and lets him or her spin their experience, the deeper it becomes – the more profound. The more we hinder the other’s connection to their story, the shallower it all becomes. Our feet finally touch bottom, as they did in the beginning. We scoop only a cup or two of water from their story and although we may come to know that, that was not the experience. Its dimensionality of depth, and its qualities of body are lost. We keep ourselves out of it. We take spoonfuls and carefully subject them to our own tests, supposing all the time that a relationship is developing. 

       With the image we create currents that keep drawing us back to shore, to what we already know. We think the image leads us there and thereby confirms our world. But this is not so. The currents that return us to the shallows of our familiar experience are of our own making. Keeping us from the depths, they kill the possibility of our relationship to the imaginal’s experience – images. 

       The image dwells in depth, in depths created by shadows and reflections, depths that can be dived into and treaded amongst. Depths cannot be made shallow without losing themselves. The ocean is poured into the pool. It is safer that way. One can stand up into it. One can see bottom all the time. Everything that moves here is within our control, within our view. Here the image, like a fish, can always be caught. One can use it as food for the continuation of the usual life. But if one wanted to know the natural life of the fish, one has lost all by just such a move. The shallow destroys the usual life of the fish in the ocean. Is the fish really even “fish” anymore? (126-128)