‘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.

  Three days the sweet Yasodhara remained,
  For her long journey taking needful rest. 
  But when the rosy dawn next tinged the east
  And lit the mountain-tops and filled the park
  With a great burst of rich and varied song,
  The good old king bade the sweet girl farewell,
  Imprinting on her brow a loving kiss,
  While welling up from tender memories
  Big tear-drops trickled down his furrowed cheeks. 
  And as her train, escorted by the prince
  And noble youth, wound slowly down the hill,
  The rising sun with glory gilds the city
  That like a diadem circled its brow,
  While giant shadows stretch across the plain;
  And when they reach the plain they halt for rest
  Deep in a garden’s cooling shade, where flowers
  That fill the air with grateful fragrance hang
  By ripening fruits, and where all seems at rest
  Save two young hearts and tiny tireless birds