Savitri – Eine Legende und ein Symbol. Sri Aurobindo

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      Love is his heart-beats’ rhythm in mortal breasts,

      Happiness the smile on his adorable face.

      A communion of spiritual entities,

      A genius of creative Immanence,

      Makes all creation deeply intimate:

      A fourth dimension of aesthetic sense

      Where all is in ourselves, ourselves in all,

      To the cosmic wideness re-aligns our souls.

      A kindling rapture joins the seer and seen;

      The craftsman and the craft grown inly one

      Achieve perfection by the magic throb

      And passion of their close identity.

      All that we slowly piece from gathered parts,

      Or by long labour stumblingly evolve,

      Is there self-born by its eternal right.

      In us too the intuitive Fire can burn;

      An agent Light, it is coiled in our folded hearts,

      On the celestial levels is its home:

      Descending, it can bring those heavens here.

      But rarely burns the flame nor burns for long;

      The joy it calls from those diviner heights

      Brings brief magnificent reminiscences

      And high splendid glimpses of interpreting thought,

      But not the utter vision and delight.

      A veil is kept, something is still held back,

      Lest, captives of the beauty and the joy,

      Our souls forget to the Highest to aspire.

      In that fair subtle realm behind our own

      The form is all, and physical gods are kings.

      The inspiring Light plays in fine boundaries;

      A faultless beauty comes by Nature’s grace;

      There liberty is perfection’s guarantee:

      Although the absolute Image lacks, the Word

      Incarnate, the sheer spiritual ecstasy,

      All is a miracle of symmetric charm,

      A fantasy of perfect line and rule.

      There all feel satisfied in themselves and whole,

      A rich completeness is by limit made,

      Marvel in an utter littleness abounds,

      An intricate rapture riots in a small space:

      Each rhythm is kin to its environment,

      Each line is perfect and inevitable,

      Each object faultlessly built for charm and use.

      All is enamoured of its own delight.

      Intact it lives of its perfection sure

      In a heaven-pleased self-glad immunity;

      Content to be, it has need of nothing more.

      Here was not futile effort’s broken heart:

      Exempt from the ordeal and the test,

      Empty of opposition and of pain,

      It was a world that could not fear nor grieve.

      It had no grace of error or defeat,

      It had no room for fault, no power to fail.

      Out of some packed self-bliss it drew at once

      Its form-discoveries of the mute Idea

      And the miracle of its rhythmic thoughts and acts,

      Its clear technique of firm and rounded lives,

      Its gracious people of inanimate shapes

      And glory of breathing bodies like our own.

      Amazed, his senses ravished with delight,

      He moved in a divine, yet kindred world

      Admiring marvellous forms so near to ours

      Yet perfect like the playthings of a god,

      Deathless in the aspect of mortality.

      In their narrow and exclusive absolutes

      The finite’s ranked supremacies throned abide;

      It dreams not ever of what might have been;

      Only in boundaries can this absolute live.

      In a supremeness bound to its own plan

      Where all was finished and no widths were left,

      No space for shadows of the immeasurable,

      No room for the incalculable’s surprise,

      A captive of its own beauty and ecstasy,

      In a magic circle wrought the enchanted Might.

      The spirit stood back effaced behind its frame.

      Admired for the bright finality of its lines

      A blue horizon limited the soul;

      Thought moved in luminous facilities,

      The outer ideal’s shallows its swim-range:

      Life in its boundaries lingered satisfied

      With the small happiness of the body’s acts.

      Assigned as Force to a bound corner-Mind,

      Attached to the safe paucity of her room,

      She did her little works and played and slept

      And thought not of a greater work undone.

      Forgetful of her violent vast desires,

      Forgetful of the heights to which she rose,

      Her walk was fixed within СКАЧАТЬ