Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass,
From a jumble of curios quaint and rare;
And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass
The whole day long, through the ancient square.
Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade,
Here by the window he patiently waits
For the sound that the gongs and the conches made,
In the days of old at the temple gates.
He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears,
For his heart is bronze, and he does not know
That his temple has been for a thousand years
But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.
So here he sits through the nights and days,
And the sun goes up and down the sky;
But he often looks with a wistful gaze
At the crowds that always pass him by.
And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream
Of his poppy-land of long ago,
Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream
And the kneeling throng he used to know.
But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd
Of human folk that pass him by;
Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,—
And the sun once more goes down the sky.