The Path – August 1895

DEVACHAN — Robert Adger Bowen

A Paradise indeed, this state of man:
     Filled with the rarest gold the spirit knows.
     The soul's high aspirations and the glows
Too pure to burn save in blest Devachan.
A wondrous moontide, brooding for a span
     Between the troublous days and all their woes,
     Where bloom immortal longings felt by those
Who dimly here Life's solemn mystery scan.

Oh! whither now is fled the sting of Death?
     Oh! where is now the victory of the grave?
          Gone, gone the horror and the aching dread!
While sweet as comes the moonlight's tender breath
     Where midnight waters sleep without a wave,
     Sweeps o'er the soul a joy serene instead.

The Path