Once there was a man,--

Oh, so wise!

In all drink

He detected the bitter,

And in all touch

He found the sting.

At last he cried thus:

"There is nothing,--

"No life,

"No joy,

"No pain,--

"There is nothing save opinion,

"And opinion be damned."

XLIX

I stood musing in a black world,

Not knowing where to direct my feet.

And I saw the quick stream of men

Pouring ceaselessly,

Filled with eager faces,

A torrent of desire.

I called to them,

"Where do you go? What do you see?"

A thousand voices called to me.

A thousand fingers pointed.

"Look! Look! There!"

I know not of it.

But, lo! in the far sky shone a radiance

Ineffable, divine,--

A vision painted upon a pall;

And sometimes it was,

And sometimes it was not.

I hesitated.

Then from the stream

Came roaring voices,

Impatient:

"Look! Look! There!"

So again I saw,

And leaped, unhesitant,

And struggled and fumed

With outspread clutching fingers.

The hard hills tore my flesh;

The ways bit my feet.

At last I looked again.

No radiance in the far sky,

Ineffable, divine;

No vision painted upon a pall;

And always my eyes ached for the light.

Then I cried in despair,

"I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?"

The torrent turned again its faces:

"Look! Look! There!"

And at the blindness of my spirit

They screamed,

"Fool! Fool! Fool!"

L

You say you are holy,

And that

Because I have not seen you sin.

Aye, but there are those

Who see you sin, my friend.

LI

A man went before a strange god,--

The god of many men, sadly wise.

And the deity thundered loudly,

Fat with rage, and puffing,

"Kneel, mortal, and cringe

"And grovel and do homage

"To my particularly sublime majesty."

The man fled.

Then the man went to another god,--

The god of his inner thoughts.

And this one looked at him

With soft eyes

Lit with infinite comprehension,

And said, "My poor child!"

LII

Why do you strive for greatness, fool?

Go pluck a bough and wear it.

It is as sufficing.

My lord, there are certain barbarians

Who tilt their noses

As if the stars were flowers,

And thy servant is lost among their shoe-buckles.

Fain would I have mine eyes even with their eyes.

Fool, go pluck a bough and wear it.

LIII