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In the little hermitage in the forest's heart, In the sunlight and the moonlight and the dark The daily human life went plodding on Even as before with its small unchanging works And its spare outward body of routine And happy quiet of ascetic peace. The old beauty smiled of the terrestrial scene; She too was her old gracious self to men. The Ancient Mother clutched her child to her breast Pressing her close in her environing arms, As if earth ever the same could for ever keep The living spirit and body in her clasp, As if death were not there nor end nor change. Accustomed only to read outward signs None saw aught new in her, none divined her state; They saw a person where was only God's vast, A still being or a mighty nothingness. To all she was the same perfect Savitri: A greatness and a sweetness and a light Poured out from her upon her little world. Life showed to all the same familiar face, Her acts followed the old unaltered round, She spoke the words that she was wont to speak And did the things that she had always done. Her eyes looked out on earth's unchanging face, Around her soul's muteness all moved as of old; A vacant consciousness watched from within, Empty of all but bare Reality. There was no will behind the word and act, No thought formed in her brain to guide the speech: 
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