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.