"I went, Lord, clasping to my breast The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut-- Here in the jungle and towards the town-- 'I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace, A tola-black'; and each who had it gave, For all the poor are piteous to the poor; But when I asked, 'In my friend's household here Hath any peradventure ever died Husband or wife, or child, or slave?' they said: 'O sister! what is this you ask? the dead Are very many, and the living few!' So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back, And prayed of others; but the others said, Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave.' 'Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!' 'Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died Between the rain-time and the harvesting!' Ah, sir! I could not find a single house Where there was mustard-seed and none had died! Therefore I left my child--who would not suck Nor smile--beneath the wild vines by the stream, To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray Where I might find this seed and find no death, If now, indeed, my baby be not dead, As I do fear, and as they said to me." "My sister! thou hast found," the Master said, "Searching for what none finds--that bitter balm I had to give thee. He thou lovest slept Dead on thy bosom yesterday: today Thou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe The grief which all hearts share grows less for one. Lo! I would pour my blood if it could stay Thy tears and win the secret of that curse Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives O'er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice As these dumb beasts are driven--men their lords. I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!"