C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Frances Laughton Mace (1836–1899)
A Burmese Parable
W
She walked as one whose strength is spent,
And in her arms a burden dread
She bore,—an infant cold and dead.
Men stood beside, and women wept,
As through the gathering throng she crept,
And fell at last, with covered face,
Before the Buddha’s seat of grace.
Drew near: at once the Master ceased
His golden words; for he could read
The suffering spirit’s inmost need,
And give with subtlest skill the cure
Which best that spirit could endure.
He bade her speak. She faltered wild,
“They told me thou couldst heal my child!”
To me this simple offering,—
Some seeds of mustard which have grown
By homes where death was never known,
Nor tears have fallen beside the grave
Of mother, brother, child, or slave.
Go to the happy and the free,
And of their store bring thou to me.”
She went her melancholy way.
No door was shut, for pitying eyes
Her quest beheld in kind surprise;
But every stranger answering said,
“We too have looked upon the dead,—
We too have wept beside the grave
Of mother, brother, child, or slave.”
Within the vine-entangled wood,
And uttered sadly, “I perceive
That every living heart must grieve.
Brief happiness had made me blind
To common griefs of humankind;
My eyes are open now to see
That all the world has wept with me.”
She made a cradle for her child,
And watched until she saw afar
The village lamps, star after star,
Gleam, burn, and fade. “Our lives,” she said,
“Like lamps of night will soon be fled
Sleep soft, my child, until I come
To share thy rest and find thy home.”