Till in the desert, groveling in the dust,
  He digs and burrows, seeking treasures there—­
  While that poor man, as we count poverty,
  Is rich in all that makes the spirit’s wealth,
  His heart so pure that thoughts of guile
  And evil purpose find no lodgment there;
  His life so innocent that bitter words
  And evil-speaking ne’er escape his lips;
  The little that he had he freely shared,
  And wished it more that more he might have given;
  Now rich in soul—­for here a crust of bread
  In kindness shared, a cup of water given,
  Is worth far more than all Potosi’s mines,
  And Araby’s perfumes and India’s silks,
  And all the cattle on a thousand hills—­
  And clothed as with a robe of innocence
  The devas welcome him, his troubles passed,
  The conflict ended and the triumph gained.

  And there two Brahmans press their funeral-pile,
  And sink to dust amid the whirling flames. 
  Each from his lisping infancy had heard
  That Brahmans were a high and holy caste,
  Too high and holy for the common touch,
  And each had learned the Vedas’ sacred lore. 
  But here they parted.  One was cold and proud,
  Drawing away from all the humbler castes
  As made to toil, and only fit to serve. 
  The other found within those sacred books
  That all were brothers, made of common clay,
  And filled with life from one eternal source,
  While Brahmans only elder brothers were,
  With greater light to be his brother’s guide,
  With greater strength to give his brother aid;
  That he alone a real Brahman was
  Who had a Brahman’s spirit, not his blood. 
  With patient toil from youth to hoary age
  He taught the ignorant and helped the weak. 
  And now they come where all external pomp
  And rank and caste and creed are nothing worth. 
  But when that proud and haughty Brahman saw
  Poor Sudras and Chandalas clothed in white,
  He swept away with proud and haughty scorn,
  Swept on and down where heartless selfishness
  Alone can find congenial company. 
  The other, full of joy, his brothers met,
  And in sweet harmony they journeyed on
  Where higher joys await the pure in heart.

  And there he saw all ranks and grades and castes,
  Chandala, Sudra, warrior, Brahman, prince,
  The wise and ignorant, the strong and weak,
  In all the stages of our mortal round
  From lisping; infancy to palsied age,
  By all the ways to human frailty known,
  Enter that vale of shadows, deep and still,
  Leaving behind their pomp and power and wealth,
  Leaving their rags and wretchedness and want,
  And cast-off bodies, dust to dust returned,
  By flames consumed or moldering to decay,
  While here the real character appeared,
  All shows, hypocrisies and shams cast off,
  So that a life of gentleness and love
  Shines through the face and molds the outer form
  To living beauty, blooming not to fade,
  While every act of cruelty and crime
  Seems like a gangrened ever-widening wound,
  Wasting the very substance of the soul,
  Marring its beauty, eating out its strength.