Classic Poem

Will they gape for the husks that ye proffer
Or yearn to your song?
And we — have we nothing to offer
Who ruled them so long —
In the fume of the incense, the clash of the cymbals, the blare of the conch and the gong?

Over the strife of the schools
Low the day burns —
Back with the kine from the pools
Each one returns
To the life that he knows where the altar-flame glows and the tulsi is trimmed in the urns.