But on a day in the Wasanta-time, When silver sprays swing on the mango-trees And all the earth is clad with garb of spring, The Princess sate by that bright garden-stream Whose gliding glass, bordered with lotus-cups, Mirrored so often in the bliss gone by Their clinging hands and meeting lips. Her lids Were wan with tears, her tender cheeks had thinned; Her lips' delicious curves were drawn with grief The lustrous glory of her hair was hid-- Close-bound as widows use; no ornament She wore, nor any jewel clasped the cloth-- Coarse, and of mourning-white--crossed on her breast. Slow moved and painfully those small fine feet Which had the roe's gait and the rose-leaf's fall In old years at the loving voice of him. Her eyes, those lamps of love,--which were as if Sunlight should shine from out the deepest dark, Illumining Night's peace with Daytime's glow-- Unlighted now, and roving aimlessly, Scarce marked the clustering signs of coming Spring So the silk lashes drooped over their orbs. In one hand was a girdle thick with pearls, Siddartha's--treasured since that night he fled. (Ah, bitter Night! mother of weeping days! When was fond Love so pitiless to love Save that this scorned to limit love by life?) The other led her little son, a boy Divinely fair, the pledge Siddartha left-- Named Rahula--now seven years old, who tripped Gladsome beside his mother, light of heart To see the spring-blooms burgeon o'er the world.