About the worst inheritance of the emasculate school of mystics is the abominable confusion which arises from the idea that bodily functions and appetites have some moral implication. This is a confusion of the planes. There is no true discrimination between good and evil. The only question that arises is that of convenience in respect of any proposed operation.
A great deal of Hindu endeavor seems to consist in discovering the most difficult possible way to attain the most undesirable end.
Thy feet in mire, thine head in murk, Oh man, how piteous thy plight, The doubts that daunt, the ills that irk, Thou hast nor wit nor will to fight— How hope in heart, or worth in work? No star in sight! Thy gods proved puppets of the priest, “Truth? All’s relation!” science sighed. In bondage with thy brother beast, Love tortured thee, as Love’s hope died And Love’s faith rotted. Life no least Dim star descried. Thy cringing carrion cowered and crawled To find itself a chance-cast clod Whose Pain was purposeless; appalled That aimless accident thus trod Its agony, that void skies scrawled On the vain sod! All souls eternally exist, Each individual, ultimate, Perfect—each makes itself a mist Of mind and flesh to celebrate With some twin mask their tender tryst Insatiate. Some drunkards, doting on the dream, Despair that it should die, mistake Themselves for their own shadow-scheme. One star can summon them to wake To self—star-souls serene that gleam On life’s calm lake. That shall end never that began, All things endure because they are. Do what thou wilt, for every man And every woman is a star. Pan is not dead; he liveth, Pan! Break down the bar! To man I come, the number of A man my number, Lion of Light; I am The Beast whose Law is Love, Love under will, his royal right— Behold within, and not above, One star in sight!