Who can ever write a poem like this? It is a command over mystical diction and phraseology that he could grapple with such imagery and begin following thereby. How metaphorically he begins the poetic lines distilling to us as the lines of mystical and mythical text and reflection casting shadows before the birth of Krishna, the Blue Boy, the Blue Boy of Vrindavan, Shyam, my Ghanashyam and the Golden Flute breaking, breaking divine melodies of love and light! The mystical glow with which he strides is superb, the mind caught up with the creational conundrum, the crisis raking the self and the wait for the coming growing intense.

Things talk about the coming of the Oversoul as an avatar, the divine incarnate on earth. Snow cold bloom and veils of pearly fleece crown the land and vanish away into the gloom, the vistas of peace, deeper peace going for a lull for an acclimation. All these hints that something is going to happen, take place and to strike with awe. Earth, waves, fire and air all keep awaiting, trying to mean what this silence is for. Why is this lull for? It is the One whose choir will link them all to realize how we are connected with the animate and the inanimate.

Twilight of amethyst, telling of, whose hue is in it all? A few stars are lighting the heights. But whose is the secret spirit hidden in? Can you say? Whose glow a-lit? Whose gem-like radiation is taking over? Where the Blue of the blue? The Rose of Fire? Whose is this mystical rose? Where the Fire? The Holy Fire purging mystically? Where His place? How Light of Lights? How is the illumination of radiance? 

The Mystical Flame keeps it flaming far. The Flame of Beauty is far in space. The same fire, rose of fire, is the thing to be felt mystically. It is in Him, is in Me, but we need to feel the same internally. It is that spark, composition which makes us look back in adoration. In the amethyst radiance of Krishna, the mystic seems to be basking in. It is Krishna his love; it is Krishna his light.

The East was crowned with snow-cold bloom  
And hung with veils of pearly fleece:  
They died away into the gloom,  
Vistas of peace—and deeper peace.  
 
And earth and air and wave and fire  
In awe and breathless silence stood;  
For One who passed into their choir  
Linked them in mystic brotherhood.  
 
Twilight of amethyst, amid  
Thy few strange stars that lit the heights,
Where was the secret spirit hid?  
Where was Thy place, O Light of Lights?  
 
The flame of Beauty far in space—  
Where rose the fire: in Thee? in Me?  
Which bowed the elemental race
To adoration silently?