PARAPHRASE ON “BRAHMA”

THE slayer but obeys the Fates,
A better change awaits the slain,
All things my essence permeates,
As the parched earth the summer rain.

The same, a thousand years ago, to-day;
To-day, a thousand ages hence.
Can time, or fame, or shame outgrow
Omniscience or omnipotence?

I fly with him who flies from me;
He faints, in me he finds his rest;
He doubts; from doubt I set him free.
All doubt is buried in my breast.

All things are mine, and mine all needs,
And mine the fogs of mysticism—
The chrismal vail of heathen creeds,
The senseless myths of Brahminism.