One morning in Gyara
My Soul shook me awake:
" Then will you fight no battle,
Do nothing for my sake?

" My plumes are dull with drooping
In the same maple's shade:
The very air is furrowed
With paths my wings have made. "

That morning in Gyara
She turned her sullen head
And Socrates and Jesus
Were standing by our bed.

Under the new-leaved maples
Lord Buddha paced in brown,
And by his side the wise Slave
Went limping up and down.

My Soul bent like a sapling
Caught in a sudden gust:
With wings her shamed face veiling
She bowed her in the dust;

For thronging house and dooryard
Of us who ill deserve,
Were guests she had invited
And then forgot to serve!

Rainbows of far-caught wonder
From all their garments rayed:
Round them the dooryard maples
Rippled like seas of jade.

Uprisen in Gyara,
Barefoot, rapt and whole,
She went about among them,
Bearing her plate and bowl;

For they had come from farther
Than Athens is, or Rome,
That morning, to Gyara,
To find my Soul at home.