BEAUTIFUL is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset. It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame offing burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or to think of.
OUR VOYAGE is begun. Captain, we bow to thee! The storm howls and the waves are wicked and wild, but we sail on. The menace of danger waits in the way to yield to thee its offerings of pain, and a voice in the heart of the tempest cries: 'Come to conquer fear!' Let us not linger to look back for the laggards, or benumb the quickening hours with dread and doubt. For thy time is our time and thy burden is our own and life and death are but thy breath playing upon the eternal sea of Life. Let us not wear our hearts away picking small help and taking slow count of friends. Let us know more than all else that thou art with us and we are thine forever.