The Secret Splendour

All mirrors in which we seek the bliss

 Of our small self are an abyss

At the bottom of whose night

Is a mockery of light,

A tiny stagnant pool

Where darkles the flattened face,

With gaping empty gaze,

Of the demon and the ghoul.

But when the Great Self glows

Like a golden cosmic rose,

The petals fanning out from one sweet core.

 No strangeness anywhere Remains for stare and stare

Seeking to itself door.

The central Eye of eyes

Can shut in all-repose,

For the Great Flower knows

 Its perfume of paradise.

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