The scarecrow in the fields
Is not so poor as I;
Standing amid the rice
He makes the crows fly high;
But if I stood they only
Would pluck me more awry.

But him I envy not,
For he has never heard
Airs in the young bamboo
Breathe low the wind-god's word.
So deaf is he that Summer
Can wake him with no bird.

And blind is he, as well,
Since he has never seen
Wild Fujiyama geese,
Far up above the green,
Flecking the dim white summit
Snow covers, ever clean.

And he has not a thatch
To shelter his torn head,
Nor a son's hand to pay
Shrine-rites when he is dead.
His poor old straw in winter
Will to the ox be fed.

So poverty alone
Is not too dire for those
To whom is given a glimpse
Behind life's fleeting shows
Into the boundless beauty
The blessed Buddha knows.