In The Middle Of An

Life Was A Sorrowful Throb Of This Matter Teaching It Anguish, Teaching It Hope And Desire Trod Out Too Soon In The Mire, Life The Frail Joy That Regrets Its Briefness, Life The Long Sorrow.

Do Not Belong To The Past Dawns,but To The Noons Of Future

We Can Arrive At A Point Of View Where The Preservation Of The Individual Activities Is No Longer Inconsistent With Our Comprehension Of The Cosmic Consciousness Or Our Attainment To The Transcendent And Supracosmic.

A Thought Is An Arrow Shot At The Truth; It Can Hit A Point, But Not Cover The Whole Target. But The Archer Is Too Well Satisfied With His Success To Ask Anything Farther.

India Of The Ages Is Not Dead Nor Has She Spoken Her Last Creative Word; She Lives And Has Still Something To Do For Herself And The Human Peoples. And That Which Must Seek Now To Awake Is Not An Anglicised Oriental People, Docile Pupil Of The West And Doomed To Repeat The Cycle Of The Occident's Success And Failure, But Still The Ancient Immemorable Shakti Recovering Her Deepest Self, Lifting Her Head Higher Towards The Supreme Source Of Light And Strength And Turning To Discover The Complete Meaning And A Vaster Form Of Her Dharma.