An ancient well gazes toward the sky, Its hidden spring, so pure and cold. Though none may praise its sweetness, It rests in peace, like the moon in its fullness.
Draw from it wine, And let the heart be swept into its dreams; Brew from it tea, And let the poets mind awaken.
Deep within, like a precious mirror, The heart receives all things without disturbance. It reflects whatever comes before it, Yet holds no image when it has passed.