The poet of the East, the Bhakta, is bare like a child, playing in God’s sunshine, clothed in his own tran scendent innocence, and filling his soul with the gladness of the honey-bee. He is always wending towards the Shrine of the Beloved. He burns with an inextinguishable desire for the divine. The life of the palace sickens him. Tolstoy had the tastes of an Eastern poet, though he made his mind sick with renunciation.