Across the Gate of Horn rises in a wide reach of gaze the dream-palace,
On the banks where sparkling the sleepless Alacananda’s waters rush;
But in peacock-groves of Paradise there are no red-blossoming Ashokas
And a kind of tenuous mortality touches even the Unborn of the Sky.
So like a ship of amethyst sounds bearing the ocean of Arcturus-songs,
Savitri with the ruby-gold feet of ecstasy steps into the geodesic Time.

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A poet need not be a reflective critic; he need not have the reasoning and analysing intellect and dissect his own poetry. But two things he must have in some measure to be perfect, the intuitive judgment which shows him at a glance whether he has got the best or the second-best idea, the perfect or the imperfect expression and rhythm, and the intuitive reason which shows him without analysis why or wherein it is best or second-best, perfect or imperfect. These four faculties, revelation or prophecy, inspiration, intuitive judgment and intuitive reason, are the perfect equipment of genius doing the works of interpretative & creative knowledge.

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These high mountains fixed long ago thou hast set in motion,
These far-drifting galaxies thou hast arrested in thy calm.
Therefore thine is the fiery haste on four feet of the spirit,
And thy waters conquer the rock of that tremendous Nothing,
And hast thou by the force of Truth adventured into Death.
Thy rhythms now run through seasons of this worldly earth,
And speech breaks forth like the Spring on thy green boughs,
And in subtle-dense of thy rapture blossoms the Mind of Light.

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