Thou biddest us deal tenderly
With every breathing-thing,—
The horse that drags the heavy load,
The bird upon the wing,
The flocks along the riverside,
The cattle on the lea,
And every living denizen
Of earth and air and sea;
Yet daily in the shambles
A sea of blood is spilled,
And man is nourished chiefly
From beasts that he has killed!
And hunters still find happiness
In seeing, red with wounds,
A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes,
Dragged down by yelping hounds!
What is the real significance
Of thine unchanging smile?
Hast thou the secret consciousness
That grief is not worth while?
That sorrow is the consequence
Of former lives of sin,—
The spur that goads us on and up
A nobler life to win?
That pain is as impermanent
As shadows on the hills,
And that Nirvana's blessedness
Will cure all mortal ills?
But agony is agony,
And small is the relief
If, measured with eternity,
Life's anguish be but brief.
To hearts that break with misery,
To every tortured frame
The present pain is paramount,
Nirvana but a name.
Moreover, why should former lives
Bequeath their weight of woe,
If with it comes no memory
To guide us, as we go?