At the day-end behold the Golden Daughter of Imaginations –

She sits alone under the Tree of Life –

A form of the Truth of Being has risen before her rocking there like a lake

And on it is her unwinking gaze. But from the unfathomed

Abyss where it was buried, upsurges

A tale of lamentation, a torrent-lightning passion,

A melancholy held fixed in the flowing blood of the veins,–

A curse thrown from a throat of light.

The rivers of a wind that has lost its perfumes are bearing away

On their waves the Mantra-rays that were her ornaments

Into the blue self-born sea of a silent Dawn;

The ceaseless vibration-scroll of a hidden Sun

Creates within her, where all is a magic incantation,

A picture of the transcendent Mystery; – that luminous laughter

Is like the voice of a gold-fretted flute flowing from the inmost heart of the Creator.