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by Paramahansa Yogananda,
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THE CUP OF ETERNITY
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The traveler of the endless track,
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All weary, thirsty, sore doth seek
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To quench the quenchless mortal thirst,
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The wordless worry of his heart.
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He spies a cup—a little orb—
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And hies to drink with joyful sob.
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Then stands aback, the cup sets down;
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On contents scant his heart doth frown.
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Yet up he lifts the cup again,
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But fears his baneful thirst to flame.
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When, hark! a voice of counsel deep
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Forbids him this to soil with lip.
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The cup so small to mundane eye,
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(Whose depth the wise alone can spy)
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Dries up, alas, if mortals drink;
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(Perennial fount, the soulful think.)
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Now, in the little cup he’ll see
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Th’ unsounded deep of eternity;
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For ageless hours and endless days
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The ambrosial drink he’ll taste and praise.
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The deathly thirst so fleshly born
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Shall parch his soul, oh, ne’er again!
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The cup he’ll drink, but not the bane,
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To quench his thirst and bliss attain.
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And vain would mighty north winds try
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Compassion’s gathered tears to dry.
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For other thirsting souls he’ll weep,
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And beg them, “From the cup, drink deep!”
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