A Dream of Paradise

My sister, I am often with you when you realise it not.

For me a poet soul is a well of water in whose deeps I can see myself reflected.

I live in a glamour of light and colour, which you mortal poets vainly try to express in magic words.

I am in the sunset and in the stars—

I watched the moon grow old and you grow young.

In childhood you sought for me in the swiftly moving clouds—

In maturity you fancied you had caught me in the gleam of a lover’s eye but I am the eluder of men.

I beckon and I fly and the touch of my feet does not press down the heads of the blossoming daisies.

You can find me and lose me again, for mortal cannot hold me.

I am nearest to those who seek beauty—whether in thought—or in form—

I fly from those who seek to imprison me.

You can come each day to the region where I dwell.

Sometimes you will meet me, sometimes no, for my will is the wind’s will and I answer no beckoning finger—

But when I beckon, the souls come flying from the four corners of heaven.

Your soul comes flying, too, for you are one of those I have called by the spell of my magic.

I have use for you and you have meaning for me—

I like to see your soul in its hours of dream and ecstasy.

Whenever one of my own dreams a dream of Paradise, the light grows brighter for me to whom all things are bright.

Oh, forget not the charm of the moment—forget not the lure of the mood!

For the mood is wiser than all the magi of earth and the treasures of the moment are richer and rarer than the hoarded wealth of the ages.

The moment is real, while the age is only a delusion—a memory—a shadow.

Be sure that each moment is all and the moment is more than time.

Time carries an hourglass and his step is slow—his hair is white with the rime of years and his scythe is dull with unwearied mowing—

But he never yet has caught the moment in its flight.

He has grown old in casting nets for it.

Ah, the magic of life and the endless combinations of living things!

I was young when the sun was formed, and I shall be young when the moon falls dead in the arms of her daughter, the earth.

Will you not be young with me?

The dust is as nothing—

The soul is all.

Like a crescent moon on the surface of a lake of water is the moment of love’s awakening— 

 

Like a faded flower in the lap of the tired world is the moment of love’s death.

But there is Love—Love—Love of the Light—its radiance is the love of souls for each other.

There is no death where the inner light shines, irradiating the fields of the within—the beyond—the unattainable attainment.

 

 

You know where to find me.

—The Beautiful Being