Heaven and Earth and man
appear to be different,
but they are essentially one.
This essence has no size,
and the spirit of man
and the infinite
must be one…
The caged eagle;
He flaps his wings…
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!—yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar–
Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are.
There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep,
Or the great gray level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep.
Here in the womb of the world–here on the tie-ribs of earth
Words, and the words of men, ﬂicker and ﬂutter and beat–
Warning, sorrow and gain, salutation and mirth–
For a Power troubles the Still that has neither voice nor feet.
They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father
Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun.
Hush! Men talk to-day o’er the waste of the ultimate slime,
And a new Word runs between: whispering,’’Let us be one!’’
Science true daughter of Old Time thou art
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies.
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her ﬂood,
The Elﬁn from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
Edgar Allan Poe
The authentic question is, “Who am I?”
And the only way to know is to be silent, be alert, be aware,
watch your thoughts, and let them disappear.
One day, you will find all has become silent… not even a murmur of thought.
Everything has stopped, as if time has stopped.
And suddenly you are awake from a long, long dream,
from a nightmare.
There is only one door which can help you, and that is within you.
Taking a jump into yourself, you have plunged into existence.
In that moment you feel a tremendous oneness with all.
Then you are no longer lonely, no longer alone, because there is nobody who is other than you.
There is only you expanded in all directions, in all possible manifestations. It is you flowering in the tree; it is you moving in a white cloud.
It is you in the ocean, in the river.
It is you in the animals, in the people. […]
Where the sunrise scarlet water
Sprinkles on the cabbage beds,
А young maple tree is sucking
At its mother’s pale green breast.