[On reading alternately The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and The Bhagavad Gita.]
Each day begins the same as those before:
With meditation, sometimes less or more.
But ere the Dawn has opened up the sky,
I’ve always knocked against the inner Door.
What seems to be the truth turns out to be
The outermost of bodies—one, two, three!—
That in the earthly, astral, causal planes
But veil and hide the Truth—and That is me!
No matter what is given me to do,
My ego tries to grasp and bend and skew
It to itself as though my very Pow’r
To do at all did not descend from You.
How can I find You in the Summer’s heat?
In Winter’s cold? In dust beneath my feet?
How can these pains exist when in Thy Grace,
All worries, pains and fears taste only sweet?