We be the Gods of the East—
Older than all—
Masters of Mourning and Feast—
How shall we fall?
Will they gape for the husks that ye proffer
Or yearn to your song?
And we—have we nothing to offer
Who ruled them so long—
ln the fume of the incense, the clash of the cymbals, the blare of the conch and the gong?
Over the strife of the schools
Low the day burns—
Back with the kine from the pools
Each one returns
To the life that he knows where the altar-flame glows and the tulsi is trimmed in the urns.