“At even it shall be light,”
Thus spake the Christ to men.
“Nay,” said Lord Buddha, “when
Draws nigh the cosmic Night,
When the sun of Time is cooling, westing,
Wearied souls would, like birds, be nesting;
The eventide is the time for resting;
Peace, not Knowledge, and Rest, not Light,
Shall be yours in that solemn Night.”
The Day hath many eyes;
The Night, with sweet control,
Blots from the placid soul
Fear, Wonder, and Surmise.
Full many splendours the Day concealeth;
Millions of glories the Night revealeth—
At Nature’s altar the spirit kneeleth.
Then hardly to feel, and not to know,
Is sure surcease of woe.
We shall not be glad or afraid
In the Night whither all must go;
There shall neither be high nor low,
Neither maker nor made;
No man, no woman, no tribe, no nation,
No heavenly crown, no hell’s damnation,
Only the Oneness of Creation;
God and devil, brute, rock and tree
Shall all be One, as we.
Then shall we taste true bliss—
Neither to think nor to speak,
Neither to know nor to seek,
Conscious of only this—
That all which Time once marred is mended,
That Nature and we in one are blended,
That Hate is conquered and Strife is ended,
That nevermore is there worst or best—
Only most perfect rest.