The Living Buddha

I saw the living buddha come,
Not to the beat of gong or drum,
Not to the breath of hymn or hum
Of prayers,
But in a yellow Mongol cart,
Drawn by the oxen set apart
For such perfection, through long art
And cares.

Around him yellow lamas sat,
Ivory lean or sleek and fat,
Each on a silken broidered mat,
Unheeding.
And he amid them rode as calm
As if it were Nirvana, from
Whose peace he heard a mystic 'Om'
Proceeding.

'What,' said I, ' this is Buddhahood?
All the world's evil and its good
This thick-lipped youth has understood—
None better?
Knows he the only way that peace
May come to us, and full release
From all Desire's futilities
That fetter?

'Yea, and that Time is but a Stream
Got of Illusion's lustful dream?
That worth and glory do but seem
To sages?
O can it be that throngs—a third
Of earth's all hold that fatal word?
Have by it to retreat been stirred
For ages? '

The thought struck sudden through my heart—
As an assuageless pity-dart.
I closed my eyes to crowd and cart
And pondered
How long such nations must have lain
Numb with despair and heavy pain
Ere to this creed, with life-trust slain,
They wandered.