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      Look not for Brahm and the Beginning there!

      Nor him, nor any light

      Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes,

      Or any searcher know by mortal mind,

      Veil after veil will lift—but there must be

      Veil upon veil behind.

      Stars sweep and question not. This is enough

      That life and death and joy and woe abide;

      And cause and sequence, and the course of time,

      And Being's ceaseless tide,

      Which, ever-changing, runs, linked like a river

      By ripples following ripples, fast or slow—

      The same yet not the same—from far-off fountain

      To where its waters flow

      Into the seas. These, steaming to the Sun,

      Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece

      To trickle down the hills, and glide again;

      Having no pause or peace.

      This is enough to know, the phantasms are;

      The Heavens, Earths, Worlds, and changes changing them

      A mighty whirling wheel of strife and stress

      Which none can stay or stem.

      Pray not! the Darkness will not brighten!

      Ask Nought from the Silence, for it cannot speak!

      Vex not your mournful minds with pious pains!

      Ah! Brothers, Sisters! seek

      Nought from the helpless gods by gift and hymn,

      Nor bribe with blood, nor feed with fruit and cakes;

      Within yourselves deliverance must be sought;

      Each man his prison makes.

      Each hath such lordship as the loftiest ones;

      Nay, for with Powers above, around, below,

      As with all flesh and whatsoever lives,

      Act maketh joy and woe.

      What hath been bringeth what shall be, and is,

      Worse—better—last for first and first for last;

      The Angels in the Heavens of Gladness reap

      Fruits of a holy past.

      The devils in the underworlds wear out

      Deeds that were wicked in an age gone by.

      Nothing endures: fair virtues waste with time,

      Foul sins grow purged thereby.

      Who toiled a slave may come anew a Prince

      For gentle worthiness and merit won;

      Who ruled a King may wander earth in rags

      For things done and undone.

      Higher than Indra's ye may lift your lot,

      And sink it lower than the worm or gnat;

      The end of many myriad lives is this,

      The end of myriads that.

      Only, while turns this wheel invisible,

      No pause, no peace, no staying-place can be;

      Who mounts will fall, who falls may mount; the spokes

      Go round unceasingly!

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