And from the prince they passed before the king. The proud and stately he would greet with grace, The timid cheer with kind and gracious words. But when Yasodhara bowed low and passed, He started, and his color went and came As if oppressed with sudden inward pain. Asita, oldest of his counselors, Sprang to his side and asked: "What ails the king?" "Nothing, my friend, nothing," the king replied, "But the sharp probing of an ancient wound. You know how my sweet queen was loved of all-- But how her life was woven into mine, Filling my inmost soul, none e'er can know. My bitter anguish words can never tell, As that sweet life was gently breathed away. Time only strengthens this enduring love, And she seems nearer me as I grow old. Often in stillest night's most silent hour, When the sly nibbling of a timid mouse In the deep stillness sounds almost as loud As builders' hammers in the busy day, My Maya as in life stands by my side. A halo round her head, as she would say: 'A little while, and you shall have your own.' Often in deepest sleep she seems to steal Into that inmost chamber of my soul Vacant for her, and nestle to my heart, Breathing a peace my waking hours know not. And when I wake, and turn to clasp my love My sinking heart finds but her vacant place. Since that sad day that stole her from my arms I've seen a generation of sweet girls Grow up to womanhood, but none like her! Hut that bright vision that just flitted by Seemed so like her it made me cringe and start. O dear Asita, little worth is life, With all its tears and partings, woes and pains, If when its short and fitful fever ends There is no after-life, where death and pain, And sundered ties, and crushed and bleeding hearts, And sad and last farewells are never known." Such was the old and such the new-born love; The new quick bursting into sudden flame, Warming the soul to active consciousness That man alone is but a severed part Of one full, rounded, perfect, living whole; The old a steady but undying flame, A living longing for the loved and lost; But each a real hunger of the soul For what gave paradise its highest bliss, And what in this poor fallen world of ours Gives glimpses of its high and happy life. O love! how beautiful! how pure! how sweet! Life of the angels that surround God's throne! But when corrupt, Pandora's box itself, Whence spring all human ills and woes and crimes, The very fire that lights the flames of hell. The festival is past. The crowds have gone, The diligent to their accustomed round Of works and days, works to each day assigned, The thoughtless and the thriftless multitude To meet their tasks haphazard as they come, But all the same old story to repeat Of cares and sorrows sweetened by some joys.