I.
A wind-bell hung at the gateway of an ancient temple
And played the music taught it by the wind,
At times soft, like bubbles breaking in a fountain,
When the breeze of summer night caressed it,
Then loud and jangling when the typhoon swept across the sea,
Or low and moaning when the temple gongs sounded for prayer.
And the people,
Who never heard the music of the wind,
Paused to listen to the wind-bell,
And then passed on through the temple gate,
With music echoing in their ears.
O Maker of all music,
Let me be as the wind-bell by the temple.
II.
Beyond the temple gate
A gleaming pool lay among the iris leaves.
At dawn it glowed like a great rose upon the garden's breast,
At sunset flamed like a crimson peony.
And the people,
Who never lifted up their eyes to see the beauty of the sky,
Would linger as they passed from prayer
To watch the sunrise or the sunset fade upon the pool,
And then turn their steps to the gray dusty streets,
With rose and gold and crimson in their eyes.
O Maker of all beauty,
Let me be as the iris-bordered pool.