Classic Poem

I SAW the living Buddha come,
Not to the beat of gong or drum,
Not to the breath of hymn or hum
Of prayers,
But in a yellow Mongol cart,
Drawn by the oxen set apart
For such perfection, through long art
And cares.

Around him yellow lamas sat,
Ivory lean or sleek and fat,
Each on a silken broidered mat,
Unheeding.
And he amid them rode as calm
As if it were Nirvana, from
Whose peace he heard a mystic " Om"
Proceeding.

" What," said I, " this is Buddhahood?
All the world's evil and its good
This thick-lipped youth has understood —
None better?
Knows he the only way that peace
May come to us, and full release
From all Desire's futilities
That fetter?

" Yea, and that Time is but a Stream
Got of Illusion's lustful dream?
That worth and glory do but seem
To sages?
O can it be that throngs — a third
Of earth's all hold that fatal word?
Have by it to retreat been stirred
For ages?"

The thought struck sudden through my heart —
As an assuageless pity-dart.
I closed my eyes to crowd and cart
And pondered
How long such nations must have lain
Numb with despair and heavy pain
Ere to this creed, with life-trust slain,
They wandered.