Page:The Spirit Of Oriental Poetry.pdf/14

 The Spirit Of Oriental Poetry turns round, sees Krishna and abuses him. The Master  bathes  on  old  comrade  of  His  once  again  in  love. He drenches  her,  and  “dyes”  her in the colour of the divine soul. The spell breaks and the gopika sings: “I am Krishna!”

The poet’s  word  blesses  and  alleviates  tile  lot  of  the  heavy—laden. Read his  poetry  and  a  million  angels  fill  your  soul  with  joy. Bliss is  under  the  invisible  wings  of  the  Immortals;  we  are  transported, the air of our prison-cell becomes light and fragrant. The poor peasants and toilers of the Ganges  plains  find  a  solace  in  the  reading  of  Tulsi  Ramayana,  such  as  no  civilization  can  ever  derive from the glitter of mere appearance. We desire the company of the Beloved in our soul. Ah! What is the depth and strength of my love-intoxication akin to that of Omar, when I am cast alone, resourceless in  eternity? That is  the  question. How strong  is  my  personality,  and  what  gives  it  strength?

Whoso has  realised  God  in  his  soul  every  moment  breathes  out  the  breath  of  Nam;  all  is  poetry  that  issues  from  them  into  space  and  time. Precious are  their  daily  talks,  which  are  our  Gitas—celestial songs. Take away our songs, we die. Mere bread and butter is starvation. Poetry is not simply a momentous pleasure, it is our very life.

The poet whose face dispels the darkness of our soul is our personal visible God. Religion is the art of absorbing the joy born of the inner freedom gained by His touch. Here the pain of self—sacrifice becomes  a  pleasure  the  like  of  which  no  feverish  excitement  of  our  senses  can  give  us. Some dead  semblance  of  it  we  realize  in  sound  sleep. It may  be  paradoxical,