A Poem

The Sun of my Perfection is a Glass
Wherein from Seeing into Being pass
All who, reflecting as reflected, see
Themselves in Me, and Me in Them: not Me
But all of Me that a contracted Eye
Is comprehensive of Infinity:
Nor yet Themselves: no Selves, but of The All
Fractions, from which they split and whither fall.
As water lifted from the Deep, again
Falls back in individual Drops of Rain
Then melts into the Universal Main.
All you have been, and seen, and done, and thought,
Not You but I, have seen and been and wrought:
I was the Sin that from Myself rebell’d;
I the Remorse that tow’rd Myself compell’d:
I was the Tajidar who led the Track:
I was the little Briar that pull’d you back:
Sin and Contrition — Retribution owed,
And Cancell’d — Pilgrim, Pilgrimage and Road,
Was but Myself toward Myself: and Your
Arrival but Myself at my own door:
Who in your Fraction of Myself behold
Myself within the Mirror Myself hold
To see Myself in, and each part of Me
That sees himself, though drown’ d shall ever see.
Come you lost Atoms to your Centre draw,
And be the Eternal Mirror that you saw:
Rays that have wander’d into Darkness wide
Return, and back into your Sun subside.