The night has passed, the day-star fades from sight,
  And morning’s softest tint of rose and gold
  Tinges the east and tips the mountain-tops. 
  The silent village stirs with waking life,
  The bleat of goats and low of distant herds,
  The song of birds and crow of jungle-cocks
  Breathe softest music through the dewy air.

  And now two girls,[4] just grown to womanhood,
  The lovely daughters of the village lord,
  Trapusha one, and one Balika called,
  Up with the dawn, trip lightly o’er the grass,
  Bringing rich curds and rice picked grain by grain,
  A willing offering to their guardian god—­
  Who dwelt, as all the simple folk believed,
  Beneath an aged bodhi-tree that stood
  Beside the path and near where Buddha lay—­
  To ask such husbands as their fancies paint,
  Gentle and strong, and noble, true and brave;
  And having left their gifts and made their vows,
  With timid steps the maidens stole away.

  But while the outer world is filled with life. 
  That inner world from whence this life proceeds,
  Concealed from sight by matter’s blinding folds,
  Whose coarser currents fill with wondrous power
  The nervous fluid of the universe
  Which darts through nature’s frame, from star to star,
  From cloud to cloud, filling the world with awe;
  Now harnessed to our use, a patient drudge,
  Heedless of time or space, bears human thought
  From land to land and through the ocean’s depths;
  And bears the softest tones of human speech
  Faster than light, farther than ocean sounds;
  And whirls the clattering car through crowded streets,
  And floods with light the haunts of prowling thieves—­
  That inner world, whose very life is love,
  Pure love, and perfect, infinite, intense,
  That world is now astir.  A rift appears
  In those dark clouds that rise from sinful souls
  And hide from us its clear celestial light,
  And clouds of messengers from that bright world,
  Whom they called devas and we angels call,
  Rush to that rift to rescue and to save. 
  The wind from their bright wings fanned Buddha’s soul,
  The love from their sweet spirits warmed his heart. 
  He starts from sleep, but rising, scarcely knows
  If he had seen a vision while awake,
  Or, sunk in sleep, had dreamed a heavenly dream. 
  From that pure presence all his tempters fled. 
  The calm of conflict ended filled his soul,
  And led by unseen hands he forward passed
  To where the sacred fig-tree long had grown,
  Beneath whose shade the village altar stood,
  Where simple folk would place their willing gifts,
  And ask the aid their simple wants required,
  Believing all the life above, around,
  The life within themselves, must surely come
  From living powers that ever hovered near. 
  Here lay the food Sagata’s daughters