⁠Savitri: a Legend and a Symbol ⁠by Sri Aurobindo, Book II The Book of the Traveller of the Worlds, Canto 2 The Kingdom of Subtle Matter, pp. 113-115

0:02 In that fair, subtle realm behind our own, the form is all, and physical gods are kings. The inspiring light plays in fine boundaries. A faultless beauty comes by nature's grace. Their liberty is perfection's guarantee. Although the absolute image lacks the Word Incarnate, the sheer spiritual ecstasy all is a miracle of symmetric charm, a fantasy of perfect line and rule. There all feel satisfied in themselves and whole. A rich completeness is by limit made marvel. In an utter littleness abounds an intricate rapture, riots in a small space.

0:50 Each rhythm is kin to its environment. Each line is perfect and inevitable, each object faultlessly built for charm and use. All is enamoured of its own delight. In tact. It lives of its perfection, sure in a heaven pleased self glad immunity content to be, it has need of nothing more. Here was not futile efforts, broken heart exempt from the ordeal and the test, empty of opposition and of pain. It was a world that could not fear nor grieve. It had no grace of error or defeat. It had no room for fault, no power to fail out of some packed self bliss.

1:39 It drew at once its formed discoveries of the mute idea and the miracle of its rhythmic thoughts and acts, its clear technique of firm and rounded lives, its gracious people of inanimate shapes and glory, of breathing bodies like our own. Amazed, his senses ravished with delight, he moved in a divine yet kindred world, admiring marvellous forms so near to ours, yet perfect like the playthings of a God, deathless in the aspect of mortality, in their narrow and exclusive absolutes, the finite's ranked supremacies thrown to abide it, dreams not ever of what might have been.

2:31 Only in boundaries can this absolute live in a supremeness, bound to its own plan, where all was finished and no withs were left. No space for shadows of the immeasurable, no room for the incalculable surprise, a captive of its own beauty and ecstasy in a magic circle wrought the enchanted mite. The spirit stood back, effaced behind its frame, admired for the bright finality of its lines. A blue horizon limited the soul thought moved in luminous facilities.

3:12 The outer ideals shallows its swim range. Life in its boundaries lingered, satisfied with the small happiness of the body's acts assigned as force to a bound corner mind attached to the safe paucity of her room, she did her little works and played and slept, and thought not of a greater work undone. Forgetful of her violent, vast desires, forgetful of the heights to which she rose. Her walk was fixed within a radiant groove, the beautiful body of a soul at ease like one who laughs in sweet and sunlit Groves. Childlike, she swung in her gold cradle of joy. The space's call reached not her charmed abode. She had no wings for wide and dangerous flight. She faced no peril of sky or of abyss. She knew no vistas and no mighty dreams, no yearning for her. Lost in finitudes, a perfect picture and a perfect frame. This fairy artistry could not keep his will. Only a moment's fine release it gave. A careless hour was spent in a slight bliss. Our spirit tires of being's surfaces, transcended in the splendor of the form.

4:45 It turns to hidden powers and deeper states. So now he looked beyond for greater light. His soul's peak climb, abandoning in its rear this brilliant courtyard of the House of Days. He left that fine material paradise. His destiny lay beyond in larger space.