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 brought,
The choicest products of his herds and fields,
This grateful food met nature's every need,
Diffused a healthful glow through all his frame,
And all the body's eager yearnings stilled.
Seven days he sat, and ate no more nor drank,
Yet hungered not, nor burned with parching thirst,
For heavenly manna fed his hungry soul--
Its wants were satisfied, the body's ceased.
Seven days he sat, in sweet internal peace
Waiting for light, and sure that light would come,
When seeming scales fell from his inner sight,
His spirit's eyes were opened and he saw
Not far away, but near, within, above,
As dwells the soul within this mortal frame,
A world within this workday world of ours,
The living soul of all material things.
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