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An impersonal emptiness walked and spoke in her, Something perhaps unfelt, unseen, unknown Guarded the body for its future work, Or Nature moved in her old stream of force. Perhaps she bore made conscious in her breast The miraculous Nihil, origin of our souls And source and sum of the vast world's events, The womb and grave of thought, a cipher of God, A zero circle of being's totality. It used her speech and acted in her acts, It was beauty in her limbs, life in her breath; The original Mystery wore her human face. Thus was she lost within to separate self; Her mortal ego perished in God's night. Only a body was left, the ego's shell Afloat mid drift and foam of the world-sea, A sea of dream watched by a motionless sense In a figure of unreal reality. An impersonal foresight could already see,-- In the unthinking knowledge of the spirit Even now it seemed nigh done, inevitable,-- The individual die, the cosmos pass; These gone, the transcendental grew a myth, The Holy Ghost without the Father and Son, Or, a substratum of what once had been, Being that never willed to bear a world Restored to its original loneliness, Impassive, sole, silent, intangible. Yet all was not extinct in this deep loss; The being travelled not towards nothingness. There was some high surpassing Secrecy, And when she sat alone with Satyavan, Her moveless mind with his that searched and strove, In the hush of the profound and intimate night She turned to the face of a veiled voiceless Truth Hid in the dumb recesses of the heart 
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