One Mass, devoid of form, name, and colour, Timeless, devoid of time past and future, Spaceless, voiceless, boundless, devoid of all-- Where rests hushed even speech of negation.
(The Swami rendered this fragment of the Hindu sacrament on June 12, 1898)
This is your cup -- the cup assigned to you from the beginning. Nay, My child, I know how much of that dark drink is your own brew Of fault and passion, ages long ago, In the deep years of yesterday, I know.
Wake up the note! The song that had its birth Far off, where worldly taint could never reach; In mountain caves, and glades of forest deep, Whose calm no sigh for lust or wealth or fame Could ever dare to break; where rolled the stream Of knowledge, truth, and bliss that follows both. Sing hig
(The Swami rendered this song of Soor Das on June 12, 1898)
I am neither the mind, nor the intellect, nor the ego, nor the mind-stuff; I am neither the body, nor the changes of the body; I am neither the senses of hearing, taste, smell, or sight, Nor am I the ether, the earth, the fire, the air; I am Existence Absolute, Knowledge Absolute, Bliss Absolute--
One day in June 1898, shortly after Swami Vivekananda's disciple J. J. Goodwin died, the Swami carried off a few lines of Sister Nivedita's writing, and brought back this poem, which was sent to the widowed mother, as his memorial of her son.
O'ver hill and dale and mountain range, In temple, church, and mosque, In Vedas, Bible, Al Koran I had searched for Thee in vain.
Subsequent to a disagreement (by correspondence) between Swami Vivekananda and his friend, Mary Hale regarding the Swami's attitude toward his detractors (See letter to Mary Hale , February 1, 1895) the Swami mailed the following poem to her on February 15, 1895).
Composed at Ridgely Manor, New York, 1899. Dedicated to Mrs. Ole Bull "with eternal love."
Swamiji wrote the poem "One Circle More" on Ridgely Manor stationery. The original was sent to Swami Prabhavananda by Frances H. Leggett in 1962 It would appear that the three lines Swamiji wrote on the left-hand side of the sheet, which was actually the back of the folded letter paper consti
In blue sky floats a multitude of clouds -- White, black, of many shades and thicknesses; An orange sun, about to say farewell, Touches the massed cloud-shapes with streaks of red.
On one side grows the hair in long black curls, And on the other, corded like rope
The sun goes down, its crimson rays Light up the dying day; A startled glance I throw behind And count my triumph shame; No one but me to blame.
Ever rising, ever falling with the waves of time, still rolling on I go From fleeting scene to scene ephemeral, with life's currents' ebb and flow. Oh! I am sick of this unending force; these shows they please no more, This ever running, never reaching, nor e'en a distant glimpse of shore! Fro
The stars are blotted out, The clouds are covering clouds. It is darkness vibrant, sonant. In the roaring, whirling wind Are the souls of a million lunatics Just loosed from the prison-house, Wrenching trees by the roots, Sweeping all from the path. The sea has joined the fray, And swirled u
If the sun by the cloud is hidden a bit, If the welkin shows but gloom, Still hold on yet a while, brave heart, The victory is sure to come.
The antiphonal Chorus of the Cowhherds, by his friend, Girish Chandra Ghosh, freely translated by Swami Vivekananda
He who was praised by the Brâhmanas, those knowers of the Vedas who made the sky reverberate with the sacred sounds of the sacrifice and caused the darkness of delusion to vanish through well-performed rituals and the knowledge known as Vedanta — he whose greatness was sung in the sweet chants o
(New Discoveries, Vol. 3. p. 490. This undated poem is preserved in the archives of the Vedanta Centre, Cohasset, Massachusetts. Cf. “My Play is Done”, Complete Works, VI.)
One bending low with load of life-- That meant no joy, but suffering harsh and hard-- And wending on his way through dark and dismal paths Without a flash of light from brain or heart To give a moment's cheer, till the line That marks out pain from pleasure, death from life, And good from what is ev
Beaut'ous blossoms ravishing with perfume, Swarms of maddened bees buzzing all around; The silver moon--a shower of sweet smile, Which all the dwellers of heaven above Shed lavishly upon the homes of earth; The soft Malaya breeze, whose magic touch Opens to view distant memory's folds; Murmuring riv
A song I sing. A song I sing to Thee! Nor care I for men's comments, good or bad. Censure or praise I hold of no account. Servant am I, true servant of Thee Both (Purusha and Prakriti together.), Low at Thy feet, with Shakti, I salute!
We salute Thee! Lord! Adored of the world, Samsara's bondage breaker, taintless Thou, Embodiment of blessed qualities, Thou transcendest all Gunas; human form Thus bearest. Thee we salute and adore!
Thou most beautiful! Whose holy hands Hold pleasure and hold pain! Doer of good! Who art Thou? The water of existence By Thee is whirled and tossed in mighty waves. Is it, O Mother, to restore again This universe's broken harmony That Thou, without cessation, art at work?
Salutation to Shiva! whose glory Is immeasurable, who resembles sky In clearness, to whom are attributed The phenomena of all creation, The preservation and dissolution Of the universe! May the devotion, The burning devotion of this my life Attach itself to Him, to Shiva, who, While being Lord of al
1. He who was Shri Rama, whose stream of love flowed with resistless might even to the Chandâla (the outcaste); Oh, who ever was engaged in doing good to the world though superhuman by nature, whose renown there is none to equal in the three worlds, Sitâ's beloved, whose body of Knowledge Suprem
1. Om! Hrim! Thou art the True, the Imperturbable One, transcending the three Gunas and yet adored for Thy virtues! Inasmuch as I do not worship day and night, with yearning, Thy compassionate lotus feet which destroy all ignorance, therefore, O Thou friend of the lowly, Thou art my only refuge
( Letter to Miss. Alberta Sturges on her 23rd birthday, September 22, 1900)
This is Swami Vivekananda’s free translation of verses from Bhartrihari’s Sanskrit poem Vairâgya Shatakam.
