Now Sister Mary,

You need not be sorry

For the hard raps I gave you,

You know full well,

Though you like me tell,

With my whole heart I love you.

The babies I bet,

The best friends I met,

Will stand by me in weal and woe.

And so will I do,

You know it too.

Life, name, or fame, even heaven forgo

For the sweet sisters four

Sans reproche et sans peur,

The truest, noblest, steadfast, best.

The wounded snake its hood unfurls,

The flame stirred up doth blaze,

The desert air resounds the calls

Of heart – struck lion’s rage.

The cloud puts forth its deluge strength

When lightning cleaves its breast,

When the soul is stirred to its inmost depth

Great ones unfold their best.

Let eyes grow dim and heart grow faint,

And friendship fail and love betray,

Let Fate its hundred horrors send,

And clotted darkness block the way.

All nature wear one angry frown,

To crush you out — still know, my soul,

You are Divine. March on and on,

Nor right nor left but to the goal.

Nor angel I, nor man, nor brute,

Nor body, mind, nor he or she,

The books do stop in wonder mute

To tell my nature; I am He.

Before the sun, the moon, the earth,

Before the stars or comets free,

Before e’en time has had its birth,

I was, I am, and I will be.

The beauteous earth, the glorious sun,

The calm sweet moon, the spangled sky,

Causation’s laws do make them run;

They live in bonds, in bonds they die.

And mind its mantle dreamy net

Cast o’er them all and holds them fast.

In warp and woof of thought are set,

Earth, hells, and heavens, or worst or best.

Know these are but the outer crust —

All space and time, all effect, cause.

I am beyond all sense, all thoughts,

The witness of the universe.

Not two or many, ’tis but one,

And thus in me all me’s I have;

I cannot hate, I cannot shun

Myself from me, I can but love.

From dreams awake, from bonds be free,

Be not afraid. This mystery,

My shadow, cannot frighten me,

Know once for all that I am He.

Well, so far my poetry. Hope you are all right. Give my love to mother and Father Pope. I am busy to death and have almost no time to write even a line. So excuse me if later on I am rather late in writing.

Yours eternally,


Miss M.B.H. sent Swami the following doggerel in reply:

The monk he would a poet be

And wooed the muse right earnestly;

In thought and word he could well beat her,

What bothered him though was the metre.

His feet were all too short too long,

The form not suited to his song;

He tried the sonnet, lyric, epic,

And worked so hard, he waxed dyspeptic.

While the poetic mania lasted

He e’en from vegetables fasted,

Which Leon[2] had with tender care

Prepared for Swami’s dainty fare.

One day he sat and mused alone —

Sudden a light around him shone,

The “still small voice” his thoughts inspire

And his words glow like coals of fire.

And coals of fire they proved to be

Heaped on the head of contrite me —

My scolding letter I deplore

And beg forgiveness o’er and o’er.

The lines you sent to your sisters four

Be sure they’ll cherish evermore

For you have made them clearly see

The one main truth that “all is He”.

Then Swami:

In days of yore,

On Ganga’s shore preaching,

A hoary priest was teaching

How Gods they come

As Sita Ram,

And gentle Sita pining, weeping.

The sermons end,

They homeward wend their way —

The hearers musing, thinking.

When from the crowd

A voice aloud

This question asked beseeching, seeking —
“Sir, tell me, pray,

Who were but they

These Sita Ram you were teaching, speaking!”

So Mary Hale,

Allow me tell,

You mar my doctrines wronging, baulking.

I never taught

Such queer thought

That all was God — unmeaning talking!

But this I say,

Remember pray,

That God is true, all else is nothing,

This world’s a dream

Though true it seem,

And only truth is He the living!

The real me is none but He,The real me is none but He,

And never, never matter changing!

With undying love and gratitude to you all. . . .


And then Miss M.B.H.:

The difference I clearly see
‘Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee —

That is a proposition sane,

But truly ’tis beyond my vein

To make your Eastern logic plain.

If “God is truth, all else is naught,”

This “world a dream”, delusion up wrought,

What can exist which God is not?

All those who “many” see have much to fear,

He only lives to whom the “One” is clear.

So again I say

In my poor way,

I cannot see but that all’s He,

If I’m in Him and He in me.

Then the Swami replied:

Of temper quick, a girl unique,

A freak of nature she,

A lady fair, no question there,

Rare soul is Miss Mary.

Her feelings deep she cannot keep,

But creep they out at last,

A spirit free, I can foresee,

Must be of fiery cast.

Tho’ many a lay her muse can bray,

And play piano too,

Her heart so cool, chills as a rule

The fool who comes to woo.

Though, Sister Mary, I hear they say

The sway your beauty gains,

Be cautious now and do not bow,

However sweet, to chains.

For ’twill be soon, another tune

The moon – struck mate will hear

If his will but clash, your words will hash

And smash his life I fear.

These lines to thee, Sister Mary,

Free will I offer, take
“Tit for tat”– a monkey chat,

For monk alone can make.