A TEMPLE , now, I know in Yokohama,
With carven dragons climbing to the eaves,
The god of it the heathen call Gautama,
He 's fat and calm, and large of feet and sleeves.
The faithful come and clang a gong before him,
And clap and fling a copper on the floor,
And paper-lantern shadows swinging o'er him
Lull lazy longings in me to the core.

I don't know who Gautama is: they tell me
He wasn't born a busy Japanee,
But likely was a Hindu, and they spell me
His other name that sounds like Shak-mou-nee.
But he 's the god for me—the jolly idol
Of all that sit so smug about the East,
For in him there 's a smiling that can sidle
Right into me and quiet there the beast.

And that now 's what I like—so Yokohama
Shall be my berth—though I may come to beg
Like any yellow-footed holy lama
A bowl of rice to keep me on a leg.
But if I do—in rags and dirt, and shameless—
I 'll go at night to see that lantern swing;
And doubtless I may die forsook and nameless;
But then, such worship is the only thing!

For he 's the god—Gautama in his shrine there,
To make you see no heaven 's reached by work,
To make you like a heathen go and twine there
A paper prayer, and feel you never shirk.
The priests discovered that, and I have learned it,
I sit and watch the saggy moon go o'er,
And ‘peace’ I say, and ‘ease,’ and I have earned it!
So add my soul, Gautama, to your store!