Sometimes he dreamed he saw that living light
  For which his earnest soul so long had yearned—­
  But over hills and mountains far away. 
  And then he seemed with labored steps to climb
  Down giddy cliffs, far harder than ascent,
  While yawning chasms threatened to devour,
  And beetling cliffs precluded all retreat;
  But still the way seemed opening step by step,
  Until he reached the valley’s lowest depths,
  Where twilight reigned, and grim and ghastly forms,
  With flaming swords, obstruct his onward way,
  But his all-conquering love still urged him on,
  When with wild shrieks they vanished in thin air;
  And then he climbed, clinging to jutting cliffs,
  And stunted trees that from each crevice grew,
  Till weary, breathless, he regained the heights,
  To see that light nearer, but still so far.

  And thus he slept, and thus sometimes he dreamed,
  But rose before the dawn had tinged the east,
  Before the jungle-cock had made his call,
  When thoughts are clearest, and the world is still,
  Refreshed and strengthened for his daily search
  Into the seeds of sorrow, germs of pain,
  After a light to scatter doubts and fears.

  But when the coming day silvered the east,
  And warmed that silver into softest gold,
  And faintest rose-tints tinged the passing clouds,
  He, as the Vedas taught, each morning bathed
  In the clear stream that murmured near his cave,
  Then bowed in reverence to the rising sun,
  As from behind the glittering mountain-peaks
  It burst in glory on the waking world.

  Then bowl and staff in hand, he took his way
  Along his mountain-path and through the grove,
  And through the gardens, through the fruitful fields,
  Down to the city, for his daily alms;
  While children his expected coming watch,
  And running cry:  “The gracious Rishi comes.” 
  All gladly gave, and soon his bowl was filled,
  For he repaid their gifts with gracious thanks,
  And his unbounded love, clearer than words,
  Spoke to their hearts as he passed gently on. 
  Even stolid plowmen after him would look,
  Wondering that one so stately and so grand
  Should even for them have kind and gracious words,
  Sometimes while passing through the sacred grove,
  He paused beneath an aged banyan-tree,
  Whose spreading branches drooping down took root
  To grow again in other giant trunks,
  An ever-widening, ever-deepening shade,
  Where five, like him in manhood’s early prime,
  Each bound to life by all its tender ties,
  High born and rich, had left their happy homes,
  Their only food chance-gathered day by day,
  Their only roof this spreading banyan-tree;
  And there long time they earnestly communed,
  Seeking to aid each other in the search
  For higher life and for a clearer light.