Book Seven: The Book of Yoga
Canto Seven: The Discovery of the Cosmic Spirit
and the Cosmic Consciousness
In the little hermitage in the forest’s heart, In the sunlight and the moonlight and the dark The daily human life went plodding on Even as before with its small unchanging works And its spare outward body of routine And happy quiet of ascetic peace. The old beauty smiled of the terrestrial scene; She too was her old gracious self to men. The Ancient Mother clutched her child to her breast Pressing her close in her environing arms, As if earth ever the same could for ever keep The living spirit and body in her clasp, As if death were not there nor end nor change. Accustomed only to read outward signs None saw aught new in her, none divined her state; They saw a person where was only God’s vast, A still being or a mighty nothingness. To all she was the same perfect Savitri: A greatness and a sweetness and a light Poured out from her upon her little world. Life showed to all the same familiar face, Her acts followed the old unaltered round, She spoke the words that she was wont to speak And did the things that she had always done. Her eyes looked out on earth’s unchanging face, Around her soul’s muteness all moved as of old; A vacant consciousness watched from within, Empty of all but bare Reality. There was no will behind the word and act, No thought formed in her brain to guide the speech: |
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An impersonal emptiness walked and spoke in her, |
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Or waiting beyond the last peak climbed by Thought,– |
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But now the unmoving wide spiritual space In which her mind survived tranquil and bare, Admitted a traveller from the cosmic breadths: A thought came through draped as an outer voice. It called not for the witness of the mind, It spoke not to the hushed receiving heart; It came direct to the pure perception’s seat, An only centre now of consciousness, If centre could be where all seemed only space; No more shut in by body’s walls and gates Her being, a circle without circumference, Already now surpassed all cosmic bounds And more and more spread into infinity. This being was its own unbounded world, A world without form or feature or circumstance; It had no ground, no wall, no roof of thought, Yet saw itself and looked on all around In a silence motionless and illimitable. There was no person there, no centred mind, No seat of feeling on which beat events Or objects wrought and shaped reaction’s stress. There was no motion in this inner world, All was a still and even infinity. In her the Unseen, the Unknown waited his hour. But now she sat by sleeping Satyavan, |
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And cast itself into unnumbered forms |
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That harbours death and bears the wheeling hours. |
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Out of the infinitudes all came to her, Into the infinitudes sentient she spread, Infinity was her own natural home. Nowhere she dwelt, her spirit was everywhere, The distant constellations wheeled round her; Earth saw her born, all worlds were her colonies, The greater worlds of life and mind were hers; All Nature reproduced her in its lines, Its movements were large copies of her own. She was the single self of all these selves, She was in them and they were all in her. This first was an immense identity In which her own identity was lost: What seemed herself was an image of the Whole. She was a subconscient life of tree and flower, The outbreak of the honied buds of spring; She burned in the passion and splendour of the rose, She was the red heart of the passion-flower, The dream-white of the lotus in its pool. Out of subconscient life she climbed to mind, She was thought and the passion of the world’s heart, She was the godhead hid in the heart of man, She was the climbing of his soul to God. The cosmos flowered in her, she was its bed. She was Time and the dreams of God in Time; She was Space and the wideness of his days. From this she rose where Time and Space were not; The superconscient was her native air, Infinity was her movement’s natural space; Eternity looked out from her on Time. End of Canto Seven |
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