We are the voices of the wandering wind,
Which moan for rest and rest can never find;
Lo! As the wind is, so is mortal life,
A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife.

Wherefore and whence we are ye cannot know,
Nor where life springs, nor whiter life doth go;
We are as ye are, ghosts from the inane,
What pleasure have we of our changeful pain?

What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss?
Nay, if love lasted, there were joy in this,
But life’s way is the wind’s way, all these things
Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings.

O Maya’s son! Because we roam the earth
Moan we upon these strings; we make no mirth,
So many woes we see in many lands,
So many streaming eyes and wringing hands.

Yet mock we while we wail, for, could they know,
This life they cling to is but empty show;
Twere all as well to bid a cloud to stand,
Or hold a running river with the hand.

But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh!
The sad world waiteth in its misery,
The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain;
Rise, Maya’s child! Wake! Slumber not again!

We are the voice of the wandering wind:
Wander thou, too O Prince, thy rest to find;
Leave love for love of lovers, for woe’ sake
Quit state for sorrow, and deliverance make.

So sigh we, passing o’er the silver strings,
To thee who know’st not yet of earthly things;
So say we; mocking, as we pass away,
These lovely shadows wherewith thou dost play.     
Light of Asia.