THERE never was a face as fair as yours,
              A heart as true, a love as pure and keen.
          These things endure, if anything endures.
          But, in this jungle, what high heaven immures
              Us in its silence, the supreme serene
          Crowning the dagoba, what destined die
              Rings on the table, what resistless dart
          Strike me  I love you; can you satisfy
              The hunger of my heart!

          Nay; not in love, or faith, or hope is hidden
              The drug that heals my life; I know too well
          How all things lawful, and all things forbidden
          Alike disclose no pearl upon the midden,
             Offer no key to unlock the gate of Hell.
          There is no escape from the eternal round,
              No hope in love, or victory, or art.
          There is no plumb-line long enough to sound
              The abysses of my heart!                      {272}

          There no dawn breaks; no sunlight penetrates
              Its blackness; no moon shines, nor any star.
          For its own horror of itself creates
          Malignant fate from all benignant fates,
              Of its own spite drives its own angel afar.
          Nay; this is the great import of the curse
              That the whole world is sick, and not a part.
          Conterminous with its own universe
              the horror of my heart!
                                                 ANANDA VIJJA.