Why will I cry, You are seated right beside;
I exist within a play of Yours.
Through lightning's ruin and hail-strike,
Yourself have I discerned.
You smile upon nights moonlit;
Under tender light You cherish–
Like a fantail in the rain You frolic;
Ride You on a screwpine's pollen–
At a mental cranny I've observed.
For You, own and strange are not there;
Always You are with everybody–
Candelabra for all light-beams,
The Self's boundless family–
This basic truth, now I've understood.
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Written is the script; I merely act as You direct.
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