Moon

(Sri Aurobindo:) “Dumbly blithe, shuddering, the air is filled from thy cup of pale mysterious wine:

Gleam quivers to longing gleam; and the faery torches lit for Night’s mysteries are set in her niches stark and deep;

The inconscient gulfs stir and are vaguely thrilled, while their unheard voices cry to the Wonder-light new-seen

Till descending its ray shall unlock with a wizard rod of fire the dumb recesses of sleep.”

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