But soon the monsoons from the distant seas Bring gathering clouds to veil the brazen sky, While nimble lightnings dart their blinding flames, And rolling thunders shake the trembling hills, And heaven's downpourings drench the thirsty earth-- The master's seed-time when the people rest. For now the sixty from their distant fields Have gathered in to trim their lamps afresh And learn new wisdom from the master's lips-- All but brave Purna on the Tartar steppes Where summer is the fittest time for toil, When India's rains force India's sons to rest. The new vihara and the bamboo-grove King Bimbasara to the master gave, Where day by day he taught his growing school, While rills, grown torrents, leap from rock to rock, And Phalgu's swollen stream sweeps down the vale. That Saraputra after called the Great Had seen these new-come youths in yellow robes Passing from street to street to ask for alms, Receiving coarsest food with gentle thanks-- Had seen them meet the poor and sick and old With kindly words and ever-helpful hands-- Had seen them passing to the bamboo-grove Joyful as bridegrooms soon to meet their brides. He, Vashpa and Asvajit met one day, Whom he had known beneath the banyan-tree, Two of the five who first received the law, Now clothed in yellow, bearing begging-bowls, And asked their doctrine, who their master was, That they seemed joyful, while within the grove All seemed so solemn, self-absorbed and sad. They bade him come and hear the master's words, And when their bowls were filled, he followed them, And heard the living truth from Buddha's lips, And said: "The sun of wisdom has arisen. What further need of our poor flickering lamps?" And with Mugallan joined the master's band.