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 The Spirit Of Oriental Poetry I THE DIVINE POET

We love our poet rather than his poetry; our artist rather than his art. Hours spent with the Beloved in sweet calm, mingling our breath with His, are diviner by far than the chant of His songs without His presence. In exuberance of inspiration nothing suffices but His person; the touching of His Lotus feet brings the honey of eternity.

Mere literature is starvation. Unless we see His tent somewhere in the forest the landscape is empty. To that  messenger  alone  do  both  man  and  nature  give  their  love  and  sacrifice,  who  proclaims where the camp of the Beloved is pitched to-day.

Our idea of the poet is that of a man who can, by the mere opening of his own eyes, enable others to see the Divine; whose one glance can be our whole knowledge. “How do you realise the Brahman?” the wise men of the East asked the poet in the forest, as we read in the Upanishadas. He smiled and they bowed down saying, “Our doubts are dispelled, we know the Truth. The knots of our hearts have opened, the Lotus has bloomed in us, and we have attained peace.”