That Deed Is Not Well Done Of

Every Life Has Its Years In Which One Progresses As On A Tedious And Dusty Street Of Poplars, Without Caring To Know Where He Is.

And Then When All Around Grows Dark, When We Feel Utterly Alone, When All Men Right And Left Pass Us By And Know Us Not, A Forgotten Feeling Rises In The Breast.

Not Far From Our House, And Opposite The Old Church With The Golden Cross, Stood A Large Building, Even Larger Than The Church, And Having Many Towers.

I Spend My Happiest Hours In Reading Vedantic Books. They Are To Me Like The Light Of The Morning, Like The Pure Air Of The Mountains - So Simple, So True, If Once Understood.

That Deed Is Not Well Done Of Which A Man Must Repent, And The Reward Of Which He Receives Crying And With A Tearful Face.