Morning and evening on this tower the king,
  Before the rising and the setting sun,
  Blindly, but in his father’s faith, bowed down. 
  Then he would rise and on his kingdom gaze. 
  East, west, hills beyond hills stretched far away,
  Wooded, terraced, or bleak and bald and bare,
  Till in dim distance all were leveled lost. 
  One rich and varied carpet spread far south,
  Of fields, of groves, of busy cities wrought,
  With mighty rivers seeming silver threads;
  And to the north the Himalayan chain,
  Peak beyond peak, a wall of crest and crag,
  Ice bound, snow capped, backed by intensest blue,
  Untrod, immense, that, like a crystal wall. 
  In myriad varied tints the glorious light
  Of rising and of setting sun reflects;
  His noble city lying at his feet,
  And his broad park, tinged by the sun’s slant rays
  A thousand softly rich and varied shades.

  Still on this scene of grandeur, plenty, peace
  And ever-varying beauty, he would gaze
  With sadness.  He had heard these prophecies,
  And felt the unrest in that great world within,
  Hid from our blinded eyes, yet ever near,
  The very soul and life of this dead world,
  Which seers and prophets open-eyed have seen,
  On which the dying often raptured gaze,
  And where they live when they are mourned as dead. 
  This world was now astir, foretelling day. 
  “A king shall come, they say, to rule the world,
  If he will rule; but whence this mighty king? 
  My years decline apace, and yet no son
  Of mine to rule or light my funeral pile.”

  One night Queen Maya, sleeping by her lord,
  Dreamed a strange dream; she dreamed she saw a star
  Gliding from heaven and resting over her;
  She dreamed she heard strange music, soft and sweet,
  So distant “joy and peace” was all she heard. 
  In joy and peace she wakes, and waits to know
  What this strange dream might mean, and whence it came.

  Drums, shells and trumpets sound for joy, not war;
  The streets are swept and sprinkled with perfumes,
  And myriad lamps shine from each house and tree,
  And myriad flags flutter in every breeze,
  And children crowned with flowers dance in the streets,
  And all keep universal holiday
  With shows and games, and laugh and dance and song,
  For to the gentle queen a son is born,
  To King Suddhodana the good an heir.

  But scarcely had these myriad lamps gone out,
  The sounds of revelry had scarcely died,
  When coming from the palace in hot haste,
  One cried, “Maya, the gentle queen, is dead.” 
  Then mirth was changed to sadness, joy to grief,
  For all had learned to love the gentle queen—­
  But at Siddartha’s birth this was foretold.