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,
  While they sit lost in wonder, as one sits
  Who never saw a telephone, but hears
  Unanswered questions, laughter at unheard jests,
  And sees one bid a little box good-by. 
  And when they came before the king, they saw,
  Laughing and cooing on its mother’s knee,
  Picture of innocence, a sweet young child;
  He saw a mighty prophet, and bowed down
  Eight times in reverence to the very ground,
  And rising said, “Thrice happy house, all hail! 
  This child would rule the world, if he would rule,
  But he, too good to rule, is born to save;
  But Maya’s work is done, the devas wait.” 
  But when they sought for him, the sage was gone,
  Whence come or whither gone none ever knew. 
  Then gentle Maya understood her dream. 
  The music nearer, clearer sounds; she sleeps. 
  But when the funeral pile was raised for her,
  Of aloe, sandal, and all fragrant woods,
  And decked with flowers and rich with rare perfumes,
  And when the queen was gently laid thereon,
  As in sweet sleep, and the pile set aflame,
  The king cried out in anguish; when the sage
  Again appeared, and gently said, “Weep not! 
  Seek not, O king, the living with the dead! 
  ’Tis but her cast-off garment, not herself,
  That now dissolves in air.  Thy loved one lives,
  Become thy deva,[9] who was erst thy queen.” 
  This said, he vanished, and was no more seen.

  Now other hands take up that mother’s task. 
  Another breast nurses that sweet young child
  With growing love; for who can nurse a child,
  Feel its warm breath, and little dimpled hands,
  Kiss its soft lips, look in its laughing eyes,
  Hear its low-cooing love-notes soft and sweet,
  And not feel something of that miracle,
  A mother’s love—­so old yet ever new,
  Stronger than death, bravest among the brave,
  Gentle as brave, watchful both night and day,
  That never changes, never tires nor sleeps. 
  Whence comes this wondrous and undying love? 
  Whence can it come, unless it comes from heaven,
  Whose life is love—­eternal, perfect love!