Indulge no lust; taste not the maddening bowl
  That deadens sense and stirs all base desires;
  And live in charity and gentle peace,
  Bearing all meekly, loving those who hate. 
  This is the way to Brahma Loca’s rest. 
  And ye who may, come, follow after me. 
  Leave wealth and home and all the joys of life,
  That we may aid a sad and suffering world
  In sin and sorrow groping blindly on,
  Becoming poor that others may be rich,
  Wanderers ourselves to lead the wanderers home. 
  And ye who stay, ever remember this: 
  That hearth is Brahma’s altar where love reigns,
  That house is Brahma’s temple where love dwells,
  Ye ask, my aged friends, if death can break
  The bonds that bind your souls in wedded love. 
  Fear not; death has no power to conquer love. 
  Go hand in hand till death shall claim his own,
  Then hand in hand ascend Nirvana’s heights,
  There, hand in hand, heart beating close to heart,
  Enter that life whose joys shall never end,
  Perennial youth succeeding palsied age,
  Mansions of bliss for this poor house of clay,
  Labors of love instead of toil and tears.”

  He spoke, and many to each other said: 
  “Why hear this babbler rail at sacred things—­
  Our caste, our faith, our prayers and sacred hymns?”
  And strode away in proud and sovereign scorn;
  While some with gladness heard his solemn words,
  All soon forgotten in the giddy whirl
  Of daily business, daily joys and cares. 
  But some drank in his words with eager ears,
  And asked him many questions, lingering long,
  And often sought him in the sacred grove
  To hear his burning words of living truth. 
  And day by day some noble Brahman youth
  Forsook his wealth, forsook his home and friends,
  And took the yellow robe and begging-bowl
  To ask for alms where all had given him place,
  Meeting with gentleness the rabble’s gibes,
  Meeting with smiles the Brahman’s haughty scorn. 
  Thus, day by day, this school of prophets grew,
  Beneath the banyan’s columned, vaulted shade,
  All earnest learners at the master’s feet,
  Until the city’s busy, bustling throng
  Had come to recognize the yellow robe,
  The poor to know its wearer as a friend,
  The sick and suffering as a comforter,
  While to the dying pilgrim’s glazing eyes
  He seemed a messenger from higher worlds
  Come down to raise his sinking spirit up
  And guide his trembling steps to realms of rest.

  A year has passed, and of this growing band
  Sixty are rooted, grounded in the faith,
  Willing to do whate’er the master bids,
  Ready to go where’er the master sends,
  Eager to join returning pilgrim-bands
  And bear the truth to India’s farthest bounds.

  With joy the master saw their burning zeal,
  So free from selfishness, so full of love,
  And thought of all those blindly groping souls
  To whom these messengers would bear the light.