World-poets

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.

— Blake

Love so beautifully idealised can be materialised if it springs from its Highest Source and has no link with anything inferior here below.

"I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

— Blake

Wrath is a weakness worth getting over. Again it cannot disturb the inner equilibrium, which is worth everything.

Better than best is to remain unaffected by the shocks of the world.

"Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The torture of that inward hell!"

— Byron

To nurse an inward hell and escape the penalty is to ask for too much.

All the greater glory to the Source which has given the fame!

May the world realise this truth!

Infinite is the thirst for the Infinite.

Because it is the reflection of the All-Beautiful.

Because our great origin is both Truth and Beauty.

Hence says the Seer-Poet:

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream.

— Longfellow

Rather, life, the great gift of God, is a splendid field for self-realisation.

That is the sign of a great spirit perverted.

Weakness is an implied denial of one's true self.

True in a limited context, never an absolute truth.

And silence can tell even more than brevity.

The Shelleys of the future will hear sweetest songs inspired by all-blissful thoughts.

"The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.

— Shelley

Our Shelleys of the New Age will be singing of the transformation of the sphere of our sorrow into the sphere of our Delight!

"My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

— Tennyson

Let us look forward to the New World that is manifesting in the old — to the New World that will be full of Sir Galahads but with their hearts absolutely true to none and nothing else than the Divine and His Influence.

"'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

— Tennyson

True, perhaps on the human plane. But true love is Love divine that knows no loss.

The true seer-eye of the poet foresaw the possibility that is now on the point of realising itself.

Because the human body is the very temple of God.

And it may well be added: Minds that have little to perceive have nothing to confer.

As a portion of the Infinite, the soul can have depth, height and breadth without measure, but tumult can never belong to the soul. It is a play of the inferior vital.