The Secret Splendour

Weary, for the world brings nothing new,

I waited for the New Year's light on the dew.

The twelve strokes came to beat me down

With the tiring sense that only the old

 Will deck itself with the glittering crown

 Of a new name and fool into hope

Of a godlike halo the minds that grope....

But something stirred in my heart as I stood,

And the pulse-throbs twinkled with magic blood,

For I looked above at the measureless dome

And knew the crown of the year that had come

 Was old but ah so quenchlessly old—

The infinity-haunted starry gold.

Bombay, 1.1.44

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