Lyon Sharman

From “Designs in Chinese Color”

A CITY man had vowed to worship Buddha

As should be meet.

He chose a pagoda on a lonely hilltop

For his retreat.

Yet wandering went his eyes—daily wandering—

To where the city thrived, getting and squandering.

Between him and that city quivering trees

Moved rhythmic tops like waves upon the seas.

“Alas!” he cried, “I am not blown like gossamer

Quickly above!

Down go my thoughts, down with that small footpath

Through the bamboo grove

To where the city people utter words

Like numerous flocks of cheeping noisy birds.

A captive in a wicker cage is my poor heart,

Bruising its wings, where it is hung apart.

“Though this pagoda on the mountain’s crest

Is my lone cell,

What shall avail its seven heavenward stairs

Or wind-rung bell?

What use is solitude or prayer forlorn,

While I still love the place where I was born?

Would I could shut the city from my thought,

Then might I worship Buddha undistraught.”