is the name of my father, dear mother?" asked the boy.
"It is only fitting for a Brahmin to aspire to the highest wisdom, said Lord Guatama to me."
The woman lowered her eyes, and spoke in a whisper.
"In my youth I was poor and had many masters. Thou didst come to thy mother Jabâlâ's arms, my darling, who had no husband."
The early rays of the sun glistened on the tree-tops of the forest hermitage.
The students, with their tangled hair still wet with their morning bath, sat under the ancient tree, before the master.
There came Satyakâma.
He bowed low at the feet of the sage, and stood silent.
"Tell me," the great teacher asked him, "of what clan art thou?"
"My lord," he answered, "I know it not. My mother said when I asked her, 'I had served many masters in my youth, and thou hadst come to thy mother Jabâlâ's arms, who had no husband.'"
There rose a murmur like the angry hum of bees disturbed in their hive; and the students muttered at the shameless insolence of that outcast.
Master Guatama rose from his seat, stretched out his arms, took the boy to his bosom, and said, "Best of all Brahmins art thou, my child. Thou hast the noblest heritage of truth."
LXV
May be there is one house in this city where the gate opens for ever this morning at the touch of the sunrise, where the errand of the light is fulfilled.
The flowers have opened in hedges and gardens, and may be there is one heart that has found in them this morning the gift that has been on its voyage from endless time.
LXVI
Listen, my heart, in his flute is the music of the smell of wild flowers, of the glistening leaves and gleaming water, of shadows resonant with bees' wings.
The flute steals his smile from my friend's lips and spreads it over my life.
LXVII
You always stand alone beyond the stream of my songs.
The waves of my tunes wash your feet but I know not how to reach them.
This play of mine with you is a play from afar.
It is the pain of separation that melts into melody through my flute.
I wait for the time when your boat crosses over to my shore and you take my flute into your own hands.
LXVIII
Suddenly the window of my heart flew open this morning, the window that looks out on your heart.
I wondered to see that the name by which you know me is written in April leaves and flowers, and I sat silent.
The curtain was blown away for a moment between my songs and yours.
I found that your morning light was full of my own mute songs unsung; I thought that I would learn them at your feet—and I sat silent.
LXIX
You were in the centre of my heart, therefore when my heart wandered she never found you; you hid yourself from my loves and hopes till the last, for you were always in them.
You were the inmost joy in the play of my youth, and when I was too busy with the play the joy was passed by.
You sang to me in the ecstasies of my life and I forgot to sing to you.
LXX
When you hold your lamp in the sky it throws its light on my face and its shadow falls over you.
When I hold the lamp of love in my heart its light falls on you and I am left standing behind in the shadow.
LXXI
O the waves, the sky-devouring waves, glistening with light, dancing with life, the waves of eddying joy, rushing for ever.
The stars rock upon them, thoughts of every tint are cast up out of the deep and scattered on the beach of life.
Birth and death rise and fall with their rhythm, and the sea-gull of my heart spreads its wings crying in delight.
LXXII
The joy ran from all the world to build my body.
The lights of the skies kissed and kissed her till she woke.
Flowers of hurrying summers sighed in her breath and voices of winds and water sang in her movements.
The passion of the tide of colours in clouds and in forests flowed into her life, and the music of all things caressed her limbs into shape.
She is my bride,—she has lighted her lamp in my house.
LXXIII
The spring with its leaves and flowers has come into my body.
The bees hum there the morning long, and the winds idly play with the shadows.
A sweet fountain springs up from the heart of my heart.
My eyes are washed with delight like the dew-bathed morning, and life is quivering in all my limbs like the sounding strings of the lute.
Are
