They Who Prepare My Evening Meal Below

They who prepare my evening meal below

Carelessly hit the kettle as they go

With tongs or shovel,

And ringing round and round,

Out of this hovel

It makes an eastern temple by the sound.

At first I thought a cow bell right at hand

Mid birches sounded o’er the open land,

Where I plucked flowers

Many years ago,

Spending midsummer hours

With such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow.

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Acknowledgements

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