Leave your dead to sleep In quiet peace with God. Let your concern Be with the living, and the yet unborn; Bestow on them your thoughts, and waste no time In costly honours to insensate dust. Unlock the doors of usefulness, and lead Your lovely daughters forth to larger fields, Away from jungles of the ancient sin. p. 29 For oh! the sorrow of that undertone, The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night. p. 30ON SEEING THE DIABUTSU—AT KAMAKURA, JAPAN p. 30 Long have I searched, cathedral shrine, and hall, To find a symbol, from the hand of art, That gave the full expression (not a part) Of that ecstatic peace which follows all Life’s pain and passion. Strange it should befall This outer emblem of the inner heart Was waiting far beyond the great world’s mart— Immortal answer, to the mortal call. Unknown the artist, vaguely known his creed: But the bronze wonder of his work sufficed To lift me to the heights his faith had trod. For one rich moment, opulent indeed, I walked with Krishna, Buddha, and the Christ, And felt the full serenity of God. p. 31THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BULLOCK CART p. 31 Now is the time when India is gay With wedding parties; and the radiant throngs Seem like a scattered rainbow taking part In human pleasures. Dressed in bright array, They fling upon the bride their wreaths of songs— The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart. Here is the temple ready for the rite: The large-eyed bullocks halt; and waiting arms Lift down the bride. All India’s curious art Speaks in the gems with which she is bedight. And in the robes which hide her sweet alarms— The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart. This is her day of days: her splendid hour When joy is hers, though love is all unknown. p. 32It has not dawned upon her childish heart. But human triumph, in a temporal power, Has crowned her queen upon a one-day throne— The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart. p. 32 Ah, Little Lady! What will be your fate? So long, so long, the outward-reaching years: So brief the joy of this elusive part; So frail the shoulders for the loads that wait: So bitter salt the virgin widow’s tears— O Little Lady of the Bullock cart.
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