The
sovereign soul Of him who lives self-governed and at peace Is
centred in itself, taking alike Pleasure and pain; heat, cold; glory
and shame. He is the Yogi, he is Yukta, glad With joy of
light and truth; dwelling apart Upon a peak, with senses subjugate
Whereto the clod, the rock, the glistering gold Show all as one. By
this sign is he known Being of equal grace to comrades, friends,
Chance-comers, strangers, lovers, enemies, Aliens and
kinsmen; loving all alike, Evil or good.
Sequestered should he sit, Steadfastly meditating, solitary, His
thoughts controlled, his passions laid away, Quit of
belongings. In a fair, still spot Having his fixed abode,- not too
much raised, Nor yet too low,- let him abide, his goods A cloth, a
deerskin, and the Kusa-grass.
There, setting hard his mind upon The
One, Restraining heart and senses, silent, calm, Let him accomplish
Yoga, and achieve Pureness of soul, holding immovable Body and neck
and head, his gaze absorbed Upon his nose-end, rapt from all around,
Tranquil in spirit, free of fear, intent Upon his Brahmacharya vow,
devout, Musing on Me, lost in the thought of Me.
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