Poetry Archive

(“In sorrow after sorrow, it is His steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of His feet that makes my joy to shine” ~Tagore) I am the pilgrim and

When thou art happy, little one, Then Sai is thy companion gay Laughing with glee, roaring with mirth, Willing to join in thy innocent fun­— When thou art happy, little one. When thou art

I am a petal in the lotus of Baba’s Grace; I am a drop in the Ocean of Baba’s Compassion; I am a flower in the beautiful Baba’s Garland; I am a star in

There is no fear while He is so near; Still, my eyes are filled with tears! O—they are tears of joy, not grief. Sometimes it looks as if He does not glance at me

Thou art the essence of Love, O Lord; I felt Thy Touch of Love; and the desert of my heart Is now a lake of lotus blooms for Thee. I felt the fragrant breath

The moving finger writes— The fingers that play the flute in every human frame— The moving finger writes The history of Time and Space. The moving finger writes The destiny of man. They write,

O, God! Into your precious Presence, I come Hoping I am sufficiently humbled And worthy to be at Your Feet To bask in Your Radiance and earn Your Grace. I already have Your Love,

Baba the Sun Through the royal banner Of the rising sun, Sink forever. the fathomless ocean eye, Tumble down To the garden beyond. Rise; To the garden here. Hidden holiness revealed, In every drop

Here comes the Morning Star! The day intends to dawn! Awake from deep slumber and sing with birds the song! The World is Paradise now since Sathya Sai has come! Redeemed is all mankind,

We totter and grope in the dark In the mire of ignorance; we flounder, Instead of soaring like a lark! Come, arise, awake, falter not, For, He is here; why fear? He is so

That Light because of which Men see the sun Whose all-Pervading Presence None have felt. Whose prime essential Essence is but One Pure Consciousness wherein All else has dwelt. Thou are that truth That

We landed in Madras, but He was nowhere to be spied— That slice of Orange Robe amidst the crowd­— We suspected that the fellow who tipped us off had lied. And we scolded him