My God! this body and this life is thine

And all the joy or sorrow that is mine.

This love to hear the murmurs of a bard,

This love to hear the Vedas, all is thine;

This lingering look on maidens that are starred

With eyes of supreme loveliness is thine.

This body that doth love to lie all steeped

In the sweet mist of perfume, that is thine;

This tongue that hath with greed at rich food leaped,–

This taste for that taste,–that is also thine;

This taste of passions fallen in the net

Of Maya's dreams like these, ’tis also thine; –

Are ever men free though they sit and fret,

And not Thou, Oh my Lord! when all is thine.