Like fell disease, it breeds within the veins
  The living agents of a living death;
  And as in gardens overgrown with weeds,
  Nothing but patient labor, day by day,
  Uprooting cherished evils one by one,
  Watering its soil with penitential tears,
  Can fit the soul to grow that precious seed,
  Which taking root, spreads out a grateful shade
  Where gentle thoughts like singing birds may lodge,
  Where pure desires like fragrant flowers may bloom,
  And loving acts like ripened fruits may hang. 
  Then, chiding not, with earnest words he urged
  Humanity to man, kindness to beasts,
  Pure words, kind acts, in all our daily walks. 
  As better than the blood of lambs and goats. 
  Better than incense or the chanted hymn,
  To cleanse the heart and please the powers above,
  And fill the world with harmony and peace,
  Till pricked in heart, the priest let fall his knife;
  The Brahmans listening, ceased to chant their hymns;
  The king drank in his words with eager ears;
  And from that day no altar dripped with blood,
  But flowers instead breathed forth their sweet perfumes. 
  And when that troubled day drew near its close,
  Joy filled once more that shepherd’s humble home,
  From door to door his simple story flew,
  And when the king entered his palace gates,
  New thoughts were surging in his wakened soul.

  But though the beasts have lairs, the birds have nests,
  Buddha had not whereon to lay his head,
  Not even a mountain-cave to call his home;
  And forth he fared, heedless about his way—­
  For every way was now alike to him. 
  Heedless of food, his alms-bowl hung unused. 
  While all the people stood aside with awe,
  And to their children pointed out the man
  Who plead the shepherd’s cause before the king. 
  At length he passed the city’s western gate,
  And crossed the little plain circling its walls. 
  Circled itself by five bold hills that rise,
  A rugged, rampart and an outer wall. 
  Two outer gates this mountain rampart had,
  The one a narrow valley opening west
  Toward Gaya, through the red Barabar hills. 
  Through which the rapid Phalgu swiftly glides,
  Down from the Vindhya mountains far away,
  Then gently winds around this fruitful plain,
  Its surface green with floating lotus leaves. 
  And bright with lotus blossoms, blue and white,
  O’erhung with drooping trees and trailing vines,
  Till through the eastern gate it hastens on,
  To lose itself in Gunga’s sacred stream.

  Toward Gaya now Siddartha bent his steps,
  Distant the journey of a single day
  As men marked distance in those ancient times,
  No longer heeded in this headlong age,
  When we count moments by the miles we pass;
  And one may see the sun sink out of sight. 
  Behind great banks of gray and wintry