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Yogin, so devoted, so controlled, Comes to the peace beyond,- My
peace, the peace Of high Nirvana! But for earthly needs
Religion is not his who too much fasts Or too much feasts, nor his
who sleeps away An idle mind; nor his who wears to waste His
strength in vigils.
Nay, Arjuna! I call That the true piety
which most removes Earth-aches and ills, where one is moderate In
eating and in resting, and in sport; Measured in wish and act;
sleeping betimes, Waking betimes for duty. When
the man, So living, centres on his soul the thought
Straitly restrained- untouched internally By stress of
sense- then is he Yukta.
See! Steadfast a lamp burns
sheltered from the wind; Such is the likeness of the Yogi's mind
Shut from sense-storms and burning bright to Heaven. When mind
broods placid, soothed with holy wont; When Self contemplates self,
and in itself Hath comfort; when it knows the nameless joy
Beyond all scope of sense, revealed to soul- Only to soul! and,
knowing, wavers not, True to the farther Truth; when, holding
this, It deems no other treasure comparable, But, harboured
there, cannot be stirred or shook By any gravest grief, call that
state "peace," That happy severance Yoga; call that man
The perfect Yogin!
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