days. 
  The southern road skirted this garden’s wall,
  While on the other side were suburb huts
  Where toiling poor folk and the base-born dwell. 
  And near this wall a bright pavilion rose,
  Whence she could see each passer by the way. 
  One morning, after days of patient watch,
  She saw approach along this dusty road
  Three seeming pilgrims, clothed in yellow robes,
  Presenting at each humble door their bowls
  For such poor food as these poor folk could give. 
  As they drew near, a growing multitude,
  From every cottage swelled, followed their steps,
  Gazing with awe upon the leader’s face,
  While each to his companion wondering said: 
  “Who ever saw a rishi such as this,
  Who calls us brothers, whom the Brahmans scorn?”
  But sweet Yasodhara, with love’s quick sight,
  Knew him she waited for, and forth she rushed,
  Crying:  “Siddartha, O my love! my lord!”
  And prostrate in the dust she clasped his feet. 
  He gently raised and pressed her to his heart
  In one most tender, loving, long embrace. 
  By that embrace her every heartache cured,
  She calmly said:  “Give me a humble part
  In your great work, for though my hands are weak
  My heart is strong, and my weak hands can bear
  The cooling cup to fever’s burning lips;
  My mother’s heart has more than room enough
  For many outcasts, many helpless waifs.” 
  And there in presence of that base-born throng,
  Who gazed with tears and wonder on the scene,
  And in a higher presence, who can doubt
  He made her first of that great sisterhood,
  Since through the ages known in every land,
  Who gently raise the dying soldier’s head,
  Where cruel war is mangling human limbs;
  Who smooth the pillow, bathe the burning brow
  Of sick and helpless strangers taken in;
  Whose tender care has made the orphans’ home,
  For those poor waifs who know no mother’s love. 
  Then toward the palace they together went
  To their Rahula and the aged king,
  While streets were lined and doors and windows filled
  With eager gazers at the prince returned
  In coarsest robes, with closely shaven head,
  Returned a Buddha who went forth a prince.

  Through all these troubled, weary, waiting years,
  The king still hoped to see his son return
  In royal state, with kings for waiting-men,
  To rule a willing world as king of kings. 
  But now that son enters his palace-gates
  In coarsest beggar-garb, his alms-bowl filled
  With Sudras’ leavings for his daily food. 
  The king with mingled grief and anger said: 
  “Is this the end of all our cherished hopes,
  The answer to such lofty prophecies,
  To see the heir of many mighty king’s
  Enter his kingdom like a beggar-tramp? 
  This the return for all the patient love
  Of sweet Yasodhara, and this the way