-59_Index of First Lines.htm

Artist of cosmos wrapped in thy occult shadow

As some bright archangel in vision flies

At last I find a meaning of soul’s birth

At the way’s end when the shore raised up . . .

Awake, awake, O sleeping men of Troy

Because Thou art All-beauty and All-bliss

Because thy flame is spent, shall mine grow less

Behold, by Maya’s fantasy of will

Bride of the Fire, clasp me now close

Brilliant, crouching, slouching . . .

Bugles of Light, bugles of Light . . .

Child of the infant years, Euphrosyne

Cool may you find the youngling grass, my herd

Councillors, friends, Rai Bahadoors and others

Cry of the ocean’s surges . . .

Dawn in her journey eternal . . .

Day and night begin, you tell me

Death wanders through our lives at will . . .

Do you remember, Love, that sunset pale

Each sight is now immortal with Thy bliss

Flame that invadest my empire of sorrow . . .

From the quickened womb of the primal gloom

“Glory and greatness and the joy of life

God to thy greatness

Goddess, supreme Mother of Dream . . .

Gold-white wings a throb in the vastness . . .

Hail to the fallen, the fearless . . .

Hark in the trees the low-voiced nightingale

He is in me, round me, facing everywhere

He said, “I am egoless, spiritual, free,”

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Hearken, Ganges, hearken . . .

Here in the green of the forest . . .

How hast thou lost, O month of honey . . .

However long Night’s hour, I will not dream

I am a single Self all Nature fills

I am filled with the crash of war . . .

I am greater than the greatness of the seas

I am held no more by life’s alluring cry

I am swallowed in a foam-white sea of bliss

I am the bird of God in His blue

I cannot equal those most absolute eyes

I contain the wide world in my soul’s embrace

I dreamed that in myself the world I saw

I dwell in the spirit’s calm nothing can move

I face earth’s happenings with an equal soul

I have a doubt, I have a doubt which kills

I have a hundred lives before me yet

I have become what before Time I was

I have discovered my deep deathless being

I have drunk deep of God’s own liberty

I have gathered my dreams in a silver air

I have sailed the golden ocean

I have thrown from me the whirling dance of mind

I have wrapped the wide world in my wider self

I heard a foghorn shouting at a sheep

I heard the coockcouck jabbering on the lea

I housed within my heart the life of things

I look across the world and no horizon . . .

I looked for Thee alone, but met my glance

I made an assignation with the Night

I made danger my helper and chose pain . . .

I passed into a lucent still abode

I sat behind the dance of Danger’s hooves

I saw my soul a traveller through Time

I saw the electric stream on which is run

I shall not die

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I walked beside the waters of a world of light

I walked on the high-wayed Seat of Solomon

If I had wooed thee for thy colour rare

If now must pause the bullocks’ jingling tune

If perfect moments on the peak of things

If thou wouldst traverse Time with vagrant feet

Immense retreats of silence and of gloom

Immortal, moveless, calm, alone, august

In a flaming as of spaces

In a mounting as of sea-tides . . .

In a town of gods, housed in a little shrine

In Bagdad by Euphrates, Asia’s river

In gleam Konarak  —  Konarak of the Gods

In god-years yet unmeasured by a man’s thought . . .

In Manipur upon her orient hills

In occult depths grow Nature’s roots unshown

In some faint dawn

In the blue of the sky, in the green of the forest

In the ending of time, in the sinking of space

In the silence of the midnight . . .

In the silence of the night-time

In us is the thousandfold Spirit who is one

In woodlands of the bright and early world

Into the Silence, into the Silence

Is this the end of all that we have been

Life, death,  —  death, life; the words . . .

Light, endless Light! darkness has room no more

Like a white statue made of lilies

Lone on my summits of calm . . .

Lorsque rein n’existait, l’amour existait

Love, a moment drop thy hands

Love, but my words are vain as air

Many boons the new years make us

Me whom the purple mead that Bromius owns

Moulded of twilight and the vesper star

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Mute stands she, lonely on the topmost stair

My breath runs in a subtle rhythmic stream

My life is then a wasted ereme

My life is wasted like a lamp ablaze

My mind, my soul grow larger than all Space

My soul arose at dawn and, listening, heard

My soul regards its veiled subconscient base

My way is over the Moro river

Mystic daughter of Delight

Nala, Nishadha’s king, paced by a stream

Nala, Nishadha’s king, paced by a stream

Not in annihilation lost, nor given

Not soon is God’s delight in us completed

Now I have borne Thy presence and Thy light

Now lilies blow upon the windy height

Now more and more the Epiphany within

O Boers, you have dared much and much endured

O coïl, honied envoy of the spring

O desolations vast, O seas of space

O face that I have loved until no face

O grey wild sea

O heart, my heart, a heavy pain is thine

O immense Light and thou . . .

O joy of gaining all the soul’s desire

O lady Venus, shine on me

O letter dull and cold, how can she read

O Life, thy breath is but a cry to the Light

O love, what more shall I, shall Radha speak

O pale and guiding light, now star unsphered

O pall of black Night painted with still gold stars

O plaintive, murmuring reed, begin thy strain

O soul who com’st fire-mantled from the earth

O thou golden image

O Thou of whom I am the instrument

O Will of God that stirrest and the Void

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O Word concealed in the upper fire

O worshipper of the formless Infinite

O ye Powers of the Supreme . . .

Ocean is there and evening; the slow moan

Of Ilion’s ashes was thy sceptre made

Of Spring is her name for whose bud . . .

Often, in the slow ages’ wide retreat

Oh, but fair was her face as she lolled . . .

On a dire whirlpool in the hurrying river

On the grey street and the lagging . . .

On the waters of a nameless Infinite

On the white summit of eternity

Once again thou hast climbed, O moon . . .

One day, and all the half-dead is done

One dreamed and saw a gland write Hamlet . . .

Out from the Silence, out from the Silence

Out of a seeming void and dark-winged sleep

Out of a still immensity we came

Outspread a Wave burst, a Force leaped . . .

Pale poems, weak and few, who vainly use

Patriots, behold your guerdon. This man found

Perfect thy motion ever within me

Poet, who first with skill inspired did teach

Pururavus from converse held with Gods

Pururavus from Titan conflict ceased

Pythian he came; repressed beneath his heel

Rishi who trance-held on the mountains old

Rose, I have loved thy beauty, as I love

Rose of God, vermilion stain . . .

Rushing from Troy like a cloud on the plains . . .

Seer deep-hearted, divine king of the secrecies

She in her garden, near the high grey wall

Silence is all, say the sages

Silence is round me, wideness ineffable

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Silver foam in the dim East

Since I have seen your face at the window, sweet

Since Thou hadst all eternity to amuse

Snow in June may break from Nature

So that was why I could not grasp your heart

Sole in the meadows of Thebes Teiresias sat . . .

Someone leaping from the rocks

Soul in the Ignorance, wake from its stupor

Soul, my soul, reascend over the edge of life

Soul, my soul, yet ascend crossing the marge of life

Sounds of the wakening world, the year’s increase

Spirit Supreme

Stamp out, stamp out the sun from the high blue

Still there is something that I lack in thee

Strayed from the roads of Time . . .

Suddenly out from the wonderful East . . .

Sur les grands sommets blancs . . .

Surely I take no more an earthly food

Sweet is the night, sweet and cool

The clouds lain on forlorn spaces of sky . . .

The day ends lost in a stretch of even

The electron on which forms and worlds are built

The grey sea creeps half-visible, half-hushed

The mind of a man

The repetition of thy gracious years

The seven mountains and the seven seas

There are two beings in my single self

There is a brighter ether than this blue

There is a godhead of unrealised things

There is a kingdom of the spirit’s ease

There is a silence greater than any known

There is a wisdom like a brooding Sun

There was an awful awful man

These wanderings of the suns, these stars at play

This body which was once my universe

This puppet ego the World-Mother made

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This strutting “I” of human self and pride

Thou art myself born from myself, O child

Thou bright choregus of the heavenly dance

Thou didst mistake, thy spirit’s infant flight

Thou who controllest the wide-spuming Ocean . . .

Thou who pervadest all the worlds below

Thy golden Light came down into my brain

Thy tears fall fast, O mother, on its bloom

Thy youth is but a noon, of night take heed

To the hill-tops of silence . . .

To weep because a glorious sun has set

Torn are the walls and the borders carved . . .

Two measures are there of the cosmic dance

Under the high and gloomy eastern hills

Vain, they have said, is the anguish of man . . .

Vast-winged the wind ran, violent . . .

Vision delightful alone on the hills . . .

Voice of the summits, leap from thy peaks . . .

What is this talk of slayer and of slain

What mighty and ineffable desire

What opposites are here! A trivial life

What points ascending Nature to her goal

When in the heart of the valleys and hid . . .

When the heart tires and the throb stills recalling

Where is the man whom hope nor fear can move

“Where is the end of your armoured march . . .

Where Time a sleeping dervish is

Who art thou in the heart comrade of man . . .

Who art thou that camest

Who art thou that roamest

Who was it that came to me in a boat . . .

Why do thy lucid eyes survey

Wild river in thy cataract far-rumoured . . .

Winged with dangerous deity

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With wind and the weather beating round me

World’s delight, spring’s sweetness, music’s charm

Ye weeping poplars by the shelvy slope

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