Classic Poem

Nay, but of such an one,Whose crave is gone, whose soul is liberate,Whose heart is set on truth—of such an one,What work he does is work of sacrifice,Which passeth purely into ash and smokeConsumed upon the altar! All's then God!The sacrifice is Brahm, the ghee and grainAre Brahm, the fire is Brahm, the flesh it eatsIs Brahm, and unto Brahm attaineth heWho, in such office, meditates on Brahm.Some votaries there be who serve the godsWith flesh and altar-smoke; but other someWho, lighting sublter fires, make purer riteWith will of worship. Of the which be theyWho, in white flame of continence, consumeJoys of the sense, delights of eye and ear,Forgoing tender speech and sound of song:And they who, kindling fires with torch of Truth,Burn on a hidden altar-stone the blissOf youth and love, renouncing happiness:And they who lay for offering there their wealthTheir penance, meditation, piety,Their steadfast reading of the scrolls, their lorePainfully gained with long austerities:And they who, making silent sacrifice,Draw in their breath to feed the flame of thought,And breathe it forth to waft the heart on high,Governing the ventage of each entering airLest one sigh pass which helpeth not the soul:And they who, day by day denying needs,Lay life itself upon the altar-flame,Burning the body wan. Lo! all these keepThe rite of offering, as if they slewVictims; and all thereby efface much sin.Yea! and who feed on the immortal foodLeft of such sacrifice, to Brahma pass,To the Unending. But for him that makesNo sacrifice, he hath nor part nor lotEven in the present world. How should he shareAnother…?