Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Temple of GoldRabindranath Tagore
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The King, vexed at heart, went to the spot where Narottam sat on the grass. He asked him, “Father, why leave my temple of the golden dome, and sit on the dust outside to preach God’s love?”
“Because God is not there in your temple,” said Narottam.
The King frowned and said, “Do you know twenty millions of gold have been spent on that marvel of art, and the temple was duly consecrated to God with costly rites?”
“Yes, I know,” answered Narottam. “It was the dread year when thousands of your people lost their homes in fire and stood at your door for help in vain. And God said, ‘The poor creature who can give no shelter to his brothers would aspire to build my house!’ Thus he took his place with the shelterless under the trees by the road. And that golden bubble is empty of all but hot vapor of pride.”
The King cried in anger, “Leave my land!”
Calmly said the saint, “Yes, banish me where you have banished my God.”