Bring him not into your house as the guest of your eyes; but let him come at your heart's invitation. Opening your doors to that which is seen only, is to lose it. Yet, being a poet, he also knows that the objects of sense can reveal their spiritual meaning only when they are not seen through mere physical eyes: Eyes can see only dust and earth, But feel it with your heart, it is pure joy. The flowers of delight blossom on all sides, in every form, but where is your heart's thread to weave them in a garland? These Baüls have a philosophy, which they call the philosophy of the body; but they keep its secret; it is only for the initiated. Evidently the underlying idea is that the individual's body is itself the temple, in whose inner mystic shrine the Divine appears before the soul, and the key to it has to be found from those who know. But as the key is not for us outsiders, I leave it with the observation that this mystic philosophy of the body is the outcome of the attempt to get rid of all the outward shelters which are too costly for people like themselves. But this human body of ours is made by God's own hand, from his own love, and even if some men, in the pride of their superiority, may despise it, God finds his joy in dwelling in others of yet lower birth. It is a truth easier of discovery by these people of humble origin than by men of proud estate. The pride of the Baül beggar is not in his worldly distinction, but in the distinction that God himself has given to him. He feels himself like a flute through which God's own breath of love has been breathed: My heart is like a flute he has played on. If ever it fall into other hands,— let him fling it away. My lover's flute is dear to him. Therefore, if to-day alien breath have entered it and sounded strange notes, Let him break it to pieces and strew the dust with them. So we find that this man also has his disgust of defilement. While the ambitious world of wealth and power despises him, he in his turn thinks that the world's touch desecrates him who has been made sacred by the touch of his Lover. He does not envy us our life of ambition and achievements, but he knows how precious his own life has been: I am poured forth in living notes of joy and sorrow by your breath. Morning and evening, in summer and in rains, I am fashioned to music. Yet should I be wholly spent in some flight of song, I shall not grieve, the tune is so precious to me. Our joys and sorrows are contradictory when self separates them in opposition. But for the heart in which self merges in God's love, they lose their absoluteness. So the Baül's prayer is to feel in all situations—in danger, or pain, or sorrow—that he is in God's hands. He solves the problem of emancipation from sufferings by accepting and setting them in a higher context: