In poetry it is the rhythm of the poet's soul which is expressed. There are moments in the life of every soul, when the soul feels itself rhythmical, and the children, who are beyond the conventionalities of life, begin to dance at these moments or begin to speak to themselves words which rhyme or repeat phrases which are alike and harmonize together. It is a moment of the soul's awakening and the soul of some persons awake oftener than the souls of others, but in the life of every soul there are times when such awakening comes. And the soul who has the gift of the expression of thought and ideas shows his gift in poetry.

           Among all things in this world that are valuable the word is most precious, for in the word you can find light that gems and jewels do not possess, in a word you can find an intoxication which no wine can give, in a word you can find a life that could heal the wounds of the heart. Therefore poetry in which the soul is expressed is as living as a human being. If I were to say that the greatest beauty that God bestows on man is eloquence, poetry, it would not be an exaggeration. For, as I have said, it is the gift of the poet which culminates in time in the gift of prophecy. There is a Hindu idea which explains this very well, and this idea is that the vehicle of the goddess of learning is eloquence.

          Many live and few think and among the few who think, there are fewer still who can express. In those who think and cannot express, the soul's impulse is repressed. And it is in the expression of the soul that the divine impulse is fulfilled; and in poetry it is the divine impulse to express something which is fulfilled. Yes, there is a true poetry and there is a false poetry just as there is a true music and a false music. A person knowing many words, many syllables, can fit them together and arrange something mechanically, but that is not poetry. Whether it be poetry, art, or music, it must suggest life, and it can only suggest life if it comes from the deepest impulse of the soul.

          But if it does not, then it is dead. There exist verses of great masters, of whatever period that have resisted the sweeping wind of destruction, which blows at every moment, always. And what is in their verse that has resisted the ever-destroying influence of time? That resisting power in their words was the life that was put into them. The trees that live long have their roots deepest. And so it is with the living verses. We only read them as we see the trees; if we only saw where the root of these verses is, we should find it in the soul, in the spirit.

           Now coming to the question, what wakens the soul to this rhythm which brings about poetry? It is something that touches in the poet that predisposition of the soul which is called love. For with love, harmony comes, beauty comes, rhythm, light and life come. It seems that all that is good and beautiful and worth attaining is centred in that one spark that is hidden in the heart of man. When the heart speaks of its joy, of its sorrow, it is all interesting, it is all appealing. The heart does not tell a lie, it always tells the truth, for by love it becomes sincere and it is through the sincere heart that true love manifests.

          One may live in a company where there is always amusements, pastimes, mirth and merriment, and one may live that life for twenty years, but the moment one realizes the movement in the depth of one's heart one feels that the whole twenty years of life was nothing. One moment of life with a living heart is better worthwhile that a hundred years of life with a heart that is dead. Many do we see in this world with fortune and every comfort and all that they need in life yet living a shallow life, with nothing in their lives, more unhappy perhaps than one who is starving for days together. He is more to be pitied whose soul is starving than one whose body only is starving. For the one whose body is starving is yet alive, but he whose soul is starved is dead.

           Those who have shown great inspiration and who have given to the world precious words of wisdom, they were the farmers who ploughed furrows in the soil of the heart. That is the reason why there are few poets in this world, for the path of the poet is contrary to the path of the worldly man. The real poet, although he exists on this earth, yet dreams of a different world from where he gets his ideas. The true poet is seer at the same time, or else he could not bring the subtle ideas which touch the heart of the reader. The true poet is a lover and admirer of beauty. If his soul was not impressed by beauty he could not bring out beauty in his poetry.