Mind, life the playthings of a Titan's babe.
As one it works who builds a mimic fort
Miraculously stable for a while,
Made of the sands upon a bank of Time
Mid an occult eternity's shoreless sea.
Death is there to disillusion man from his quest for the Ideal. Therefore he starts his gospel mocking at man’s idea of God and Love which, according to him, are nothing but illusions painted by man's mind and desires.
Not with one moment of sharp close or the slow fall of a dim curtain the play ceases:
Yet is there Time to be crossed, lives to be lived out, the unplayed acts of the soul’s drama.
A heart of silence in the hands of joy
Inhabited with rich creative beats
A body like a parable of dawn
That seemed a niche for veiled divinity
Or golden temple door to things beyond.
Thus streamed down from the realm of early Light
Ethereal thinkings into Matter's world [...]
To labour and to dream and new-create,
To feel beauty's touch and know the world and self:
The Golden Child began to think and see.
All my cells thrill swept by a surge of splendour,
Soul and body stir with a mighty rapture,
Light and still more light like an ocean billows
Over me, round me.