'The Knot that ties together the stars
The Two who are one are the secret of all power ...'

The following exerpt is from Sri Aurobindo's
Savitri, Canto IV, 'The Secret Knowledge':

'This is the knot that ties together the stars:

The Two who are one are the secret of all power,

The Two are one are the might and right in things.

His soul, silent, supports the world and her,

His acts are her commandment's registers.

Happy, inert, he lies beneath her feet:

His breast he offers for her cosmic dance

Of which our lives are the quivering theatre,

And none could bear but for his strength within,

Yet none would leave because of his delight.

His works, this thoughts have been devised by her,

His being is a mirror vast of hers:

Active, inspired by her he speaks and moves;

His deeds obey her heart's unspoken demands:

Passive, he bears the impacts of the world

As if her touches shaping his soul and life:

His journey through the days is her sun-march;

He runs upon her roads; hers is his course.

A witness and student of her joy and dole,

A partner in her evil and good,

He has consented to her passionate ways,

He is driven by her sweet and dreadful force.

His sanctioning name initials all her works;

His silence is his signature to her deeds;

In the execution of her drama's scheme,

In her fancies of the moment and its mood,

In the march of this oblivious ordinary world

Where all is deep and strange to the eyes that see

And Nature's common forms are marvel-wefts,

She through his witness sight and motion of might

Unrolls the material of her cosmic Act,

Her happenings that exalt and smite the soul,

Her force that moves, her powers that save and slay,

Her Word that in the silence speaks to our hearts,

Her silence that transcends the summit Word,

Her heights and depths to which our spirit moves,

Her events that weave the texture of our lives

And all by which we find or lose ourselves,

Things sweet and bitter, magnificent and mean,

Things terrible and beautiful and divine.

Her empire in the cosmos she has built,

He is governed by her subtle and mighty laws.

His consciousness is a babe on her knees,

His being a field of her vast experiment,

Her endless space is the playground of his thoughts;

She binds to knowledge of the shapes of Time

And the creative error of limiting mind

And chance that wears the rigid face of fate

And her sport of death and pain and Nescience,

His changed and struggling immortality.

His soul is a subtle atom in a mass,

His substance a material for her works.

His spirit survives amid the death of things,

He climbs to eternity through being's gaps,

He is carried by her from Night to deathless Light.

This grand surrender is his free-will's gift,

His pure transcendent force submits to hers.

In the mystery of her cosmic ignorance,

In the insoluble riddle of her play,

A creature made of perishable stuff,

In the pattern she has set for him he moves,

He thinks with her thoughts, with her trouble his bosom heaves;

He seems the thing that she would have him seem,

He is whatever her artist will can make.

Although she drives him on her fancy's roads,

At play with him as with her child or slave,

To freedom and the Eternal's mastery

And immortality's stand above the world,

She moves her seeming puppet of an hour.

Even in his mortal session in body's house,

An aimless traveller between birth and death,

Ephemeral dreaming of immortality,

To reign she spurs him. He takes up her powers;

He has harnessed her to the yoke of her own law.

His face of human thought puts on a crown.

Held in her leash, bound to her veiled caprice,

He studies her ways if so he may prevail

Even for an hour and she work out his will;

He makes of her his moment passion's serf:

To obey she feigns, she follows her creature's lead:

For him she was made, lives only for his use.

But conquering her, then he is most her slave;

He is her dependent, all his means are hers;

Nothing without her he can, she rules him still.

At last he wakes to a memory of Self:

He sees within the face of deity,

The Godhead breaks out through the human mould:

Her highest heights she unmasks and is his mate.

Til then he is a plaything in her game;

Her seeming regent, yet her fancy's toy,

A living robot moved by her energy's springs,

He acts as in the movements of a dream,

An automaton stepping in the grooves of Fate,

He stumbles on driven by her whip of Force:

His thought labours, a bullock in Time's fields;

His will he thinks his own, is shaped by her forge.

Obedient to World-Nature's dumb control,

Driven by his own formidable Power,

His chosen partner in a titan game,

Her will he has made the master of his fate,

Her whim the dispenser of his pleasure and pain;

He as sold himself into her regal power

For any blow and boon that she may choose:

Even in what is suffering to our sense,

He feels the sweetness of her mastering touch,

In all experience meets her blissful hands;

On his heart he bears the happiness of her tread

And the surprise of her arrival's joy

In each event and every moment's chance.

All she can do is marvellous in his sight:

He revels in her, a swimmer in her sea,

A tireless amateur of her world-delight,

He rejoices in her every thought and act

And gives consent to all that she can wish;

Whatever she desires he wills to be:

The Spirit, the innumerable One,

He has left behind his lone eternity,

He is an endless birth in endless Time,

Her finite's multitude in an infinite Space.'


Bold emphasis added

Continued in 'a truth to know, a work to do'