Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various
colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim.

My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame
and place them before the altar of thy temple.

No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of
sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight.

Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all
my desires ripen into fruits of love.


The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time
that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher.

The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it
calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no
passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river.

I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall
chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the
unknown man plays upon his lute.


Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to
thee undiminished.

The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields
and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing