And myriad flags flutter in every breeze,
And children crowned with flowers dance in the streets,
And all keep universal holiday
With shows and games, and laugh and dance and song,
For to the gentle queen a son is born,
To King Suddhodana the good an heir.

But scarcely had these myriad lamps gone out,
The sounds of revelry had scarcely died,
When coming from the palace in hot haste,
One cried, "Maya, the gentle queen, is dead."
Then mirth was changed to sadness, joy to grief,
For all had learned to love the gentle queen--
But at Siddartha's birth this was foretold.

Among the strangers bringing gifts from far,
There came an ancient sage--whence, no one knew--
Age-bowed, head like the snow, eyes filmed and white,
So deaf the thunder scarcely startled him,
Who met them, as they said, three journeys back,
And all his talk was of a new-born king,
Just born, to rule the world if he would rule.
He was so gentle, seemed so wondrous wise,
They followed him, he following, he said,
A light they could not see; and when encamped,
Morn, noon and night devoutly would he pray,
And then would talk for hours, as friend to friend,
With questionings about this new-born king,
Gazing intently at the tent's blank wall,
With nods and smiles, as if he saw and heard,