That men, high, low, rich, poor, are brothers all,[10]
Which, pondered much in his heart's fruitful soil,
Had taken root as a great living truth
That to a mighty doctrine soon would grow,
A mighty tree to heal the nations with its leaves--
Like some small grain of wheat, appearing dead,
In mummy-case three thousand years ago[11]
Securely wrapped and sunk in Egypt's tombs,
Themselves buried beneath the desert sands,
Which now brought forth, and planted in fresh soil,
And watered by the dews and rains of heaven,
Shoots up and yields a hundred-fold of grain,
Until in golden harvests now it waves
On myriad acres, many thousand miles
From where the single ancient seed had grown.

Thus he grew up with all that heart could wish
Or power command; his very life itself,
So fresh and young, sound body with sound mind,
The living fountain of perpetual joy.
Yet he would often sit and sadly think
Sad thoughts and deep, and far beyond his years;
How sorrow filled the world; how things were shared--
One born to waste, another born to want;
One for life's cream, others to drain its dregs;
One born a master, others abject slaves.
And when he asked his masters to explain,
When all were brothers, how such things could be,
They gave him speculations, fables old,
How Brahm first Brahmans made to think for all,