I CANNOT choose the best
The best chooses me.

THE FLOOD, at last, has come upon
your dry river-bed.
Cry for the boatman,
cut the cordage,
launch the boat.
Take your oars, my comrades,
your debt has grown heavy,
for you have spent idle days at the landing,
hesitating to buy and sell.
Pull up the anchor,
set the sails,
let happen what may.

BEHIND AN infinite secrecy of the dark
from which the world of prying lights was shut out
there walked in the Destroyer,
and underneath the pall of an ominous hush
rehearsed reparation in the deep of my being.
At last the stage was made vacant
for the new act of life's play,
when a fiery finger from the sky touched a fringe of the darkness
and a lightning thrill
pierced the immensity of sleep
breaking it to pieces.
A stream of awakening began to course through the veins of a
blind inertness
as the first flood of the rainy June pursues its branching path
amidst the emptiness of a dry river-bed.
Big boulders of shadows barricaded the passage of light
and created confusion
till they were swept away,
and the spirit of new life unbared herself
in a luminous horizon of peace.
This body of mine
the carrier of the burden of a past
seemed to me like an exhausted cloud
slipping off from the listless arm of the morning.
I felt freed from its clasp
in the heart of an incorporeal light
at the furthest shore
of evanescent things.