And thus he mused, seeking to find a light
To guide men on their dark and weary way,
And through the valley and the shades of death,
Until the glories of the setting sun
Called him to vespers and his evening meal.
Then roused from revery, ablutions made,
Eight times he bowed, just as the setting sun,
A fiery red, sunk slowly out of sight
Beyond the western plains, gilded and tinged,
Misty and vast, beneath a brilliant sky,
Shaded from brightest gold to softest rose.
Then, after supper, back and forth he paced
Upon the narrow rock before his cave,
Seeking to ease his numbed and stiffened limbs;
While evening's sombre shadows slowly crept
From plain to hill and highest mountain-top,
And solemn silence settled on the world,
Save for the night-jar's cry and owl's complaint;
While many lights from out the city gleam,
And thickening stars spangle the azure vault,
Until the moon, with soft and silvery light,
Half veils and half reveals the sleeping world.
And then he slept--for weary souls must sleep,
As well as bodies worn with daily toil;
And as he lay stretched on his hard, cold bed,
His youthful blood again bounds freely on,
Repairing wastes the weary day had made.
And then he dreamed. Sometimes he dreamed of home,
Of young Rahula, reaching out his arms,
Of sweet Yasodhara with loving words
Cheering him on, as love alone can cheer.
Sometimes he dreamed he saw that living light
For which his earnest soul so long had yearned--
But over hills and mountains far away.
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