O sweet dead artist and seer, O tender prophetic priest,
Draw me aside the curtain that veils the heart of your East.

O wing of the Empress of mountains,
Brood white o'er a world of surprises;
And soar to thy Sun as she rises
From the mazarine arch of her fountains.
For thine islands she dropped in the reeds
As a girdle of emerald beads,
And her rainbow promise of genius spanned
As a bridge for the gods to their chosen land.
And her last pure poet shall sing
Like a farewell note
From a nightingale's throat
Of her peace, through thy roseate window of Spring.

I saw him last in the solemn grove
Where the orange temples of Kasŭga shine,
Feeding the timorous deer that rove
Through her tall, dark, purple pillars of pine,
And marking the pattern of leaves
Which the golden mesh of the willow weaves
On the olive bed of her moss-grown eaves.
And I cried to my painter-sage,
" O spirit lone of a bygone age,
Smiling mid ruin and change,
With faith in the beautiful soul of things,
I would gaze on the jewels thy vision brings
From the calm interior depths of its range.
For I've flown from my West
Like a desolate bird from a broken nest
To learn thy secret of joy and rest.
Quaff from thy fancy's chalice,
And build me anew the fairy palace
With arches gilded and ceiling pearled
Where dwells the soul of thine Asian world. "

Then I thought that his smile grew finer,
As if touched with an insight diviner;
Dear Hogai, my master,
Perched on a wild wistaria stem.
And I marked the light on his mantle's hem
Of a halo pure as a purple aster.
And the cold green blades of a bamboo spear
Pierced to his hand through the atmosphere,
Like the note of a silver bell to the ear.
And his voice came soft as the hymn
Which the snow-clad virgins in cloister dim
Were chanting, with rhythmical sway of limb.
" The past is the seed in the heart of a rose
Whose petalled present shall fade as it blows.
The past is the seed in the soul of man,
The infinite Now of the spirit's span.
For flesh is a flower
That blooms for an hour;
And the soul is the seed
Which determines the breed,
The past in the present
For monarch or peasant.
Eye to eye
'T is ourselves we spy;
For doom or grace
One manifold face;
Life's triumphs and errors
In self-resurrections,
Like endless reflections
From parallel mirrors.

" Now I speed on a charger of wind
To the snow-capped castles of Ind.
Mid statues of Buddha the meek,
Link between Mongol and Greek,
Kanishka haughty and lone
Here lolled on his sculptured throne,
The great Vasubandhu to mark,
Lion-faced patriarch.
Now moss like a pall
Shrouds the ruined wall;
Afar in the desert the tigers call.
One pilgrim alone
From its sandy bed
Is lifting a beautiful Buddha's head.
" O take me, loved of the dragon throne,
Back to thy pious imperial prince;
For ages and ages since
'T was I who carved that form
From the limestone warm.
I'll show thee where germinate in the soil
A thousand truncated gods for thy spoil.
Gather these Bodhisats,
And battle-scarred features of grim Arhats,
And arrogant alabaster kings
With eyes of jacinth
Dethroned from their plinth,
And the masterful heads of Scythian knights
Scowling in mortal fights
With misshapen elemental things.
And hurry thy laden ship
On a heaven-blessed homeward trip; —
So shall the Northern and Eastern plains
Clap their hands at thy gains.
For the light of unborn states
From these things radiates;
Blood for solution
Of crystal worlds Confucian;
Stars for the final Asian man
Rising in far Japan.
I'll paint on the wall
Of thy Tartar capital
Blue gods unmoved in everlasting flame,
Vast planetary coils without a name,
Invigorating thrills
From unseen wills.
And spurred by these I shall cast
Black bronze in an infinite mould,
As high as a pine
And as fine
As the patient jeweller carves his gold;
Impersonal types which shall last
As the noblest ideals of the Past."

*****

" O crystalline flash at the bar of billows!
O amethyst gate of the Eastern seas!
O balmy bosom of soft spring willows!
O pearly vision of white plum trees!

" O blest Hangchow, I fly to thee now
As a fluttering dove to her leafy home;
As the seabirds sweep o'er the spray of the deep
To the reedy fringe of Sientang's foam.

" Now a mirror of pines thy soft lake shines
By the dewy breath of the morning kissed.
And the spouting rills like the blood of the hills
Are drunk by the passionate lips of the mist.

" In a tangle of leaves with silken sleeves
Thy poets sing on the terraced beach,
Where the blue-flagged taverns with mossy eaves
Are starred by the pink of the blossoming peach.

" Thy ramparts rise with roofs to the skies
Like a jewelled cluster of golden peaks.
'Neath the crystal ridge of the arching bridge
Is the dreamy shade which the boatman seeks.

" While sunbeams play on the rock-hewn way
To the dizzy heights of his temple's spire,
Like a spirit roves in mountain groves
The priestly painter with soul a-fire.

" Nor frost of age shall the saintly sage
Restrain from the balm of his walk at noon;
Nor the hem of the night retard the flight
Of the maiden who bares her breast to the moon.

" In dainty dells where the silver bells
Of far-off temples caress the breeze,
Shall nature's child with her locks blown wild
Her herbs let fall as she falls on her knees.

" For visions come on the noontide hum
Of soul in the infinite warmth of things,
The mirror of moods where spirit broods
With the glory of love on her half-grown wings.

" There knotted pines with their storm-torn lines
Are stamped with the stress of a passion human;
And the willow swims on its current of limbs
Like the yielding heart of a queenly woman.

" And mountains crossed by the track of the frost,
And rocks that harden with weight of woes,
And rivers that hide like a sweet, shy bride,
And thorns which sting in the kiss of a rose,

" And habits that twine in a clinging vine,
And innocent herons in lotus beds,
And water that showers the vernal flowers,
Are the patterns of soul with its rainbow threads.

" And a song of pity is rife in the city;
And the marts of toil are a revel of mirth;
And the passion of labor is help to a neighbor
For the sake of the love God breathes on the earth.

" Let the painter paint a world for a saint!
Let the poet sing of the realm of the heart!
Where the spur of duty is the passion for beauty
There Love is a law, and the Law is an art.

" O crystalline flash at the bar of billows,
O tremulous secret the pine-trees hum!
There once was a life like the peace of thy willows, —
But night shuts down, and my voice is dumb.

*****

" Farewell to the dawn in the meadow!
Farewell to the glint on the dew!
All hail to the wing of the shadow,
And a kiss for the curse of the new!
'T is the flight of the wild goose graven
On the pale green gold of the West;
And I wake to the call of the raven.
Let me sing to the land of my rest!

" O land where the towns are like garden blooms!
O land where the maids are like peaches!
O gardens faint with their own perfumes!
O maidens like waves on the beaches!
O erratic child Japanese!
Heir of Mongolian peace,
Though we know not thy fate hereafter,
Thank God for thy genuine laughter.
Bathe in the passing mood of thy mirth
As in sunlit ether the earth;
Like the plunging bow of a ship
In the pools of thy faith still dip;
And freshen the Asian ideal
In the cooling floods of the real.

" Not for sages only
Or hermits lonely
Blows the bud of truth;
But for innocent youth,
Hearts that smile
With no shadow of guile.
Let pink-veined pleasure bloom!
Bliss
Like the kiss
Of a summer air,
Roving it knows not where,
Blessing it cares not whom!
Words
Like the glad good morning of the birds;
Loves
Like the coo of doves;
Soft whispers
As of fair nuns at vespers;
Airs
Pure as a child's first prayers!
Let us dance
To the moon
In a ring of wild flowers!
In a trance
Let us swoon
On the lap of the hours!
Let us fly
Like a lark to the sky!
Let us graze
Like a dove-eyed fawn
On the purple pastures of haze!
Let us leap on the gem-starred lawn
Of the virginal dawn!
Let us gaze
In a pool
In the heart of a dell
Shady and cool;
On the film of that well
See unexpected
Beauty reflected,
The world of art
Like a thing apart; —
Ripples of notes
From wild birds throats,
Blurred outlines
Of the shimmer of pines,
Tangled masses
Of dew-soaked grasses,
Faint perfumes
From the mirrored blooms!
This is thy mission,
O child of transition,
To illumine the gloomy pages
Of later ages.
Retain simplicity
Even to eccentricity,
Prize individuality
As man's divinest quality,
The spontaneity
Of Deity!
Teach them the music fine
In the curve of a perfect line;
Teach them to water their art
With the blood of the heart!

" O happy children of blest Japan,
Relics of elemental man
Before souls wilt
In the parching consciousness of guilt!
Dance to the tune of thy flutes,
Or weep at thy pathos of lutes;
Gather like laughing stars
Round the course of thy festal cars;
Light the smoking torch
O'er the flower-bed in thy porch;
Hang evergreen
On the gate at New Year's e'en;
Love storks and deer
And all things significant and queer;
Wine cups of buds like myrtles,
And the hairy tails of turtles,
Pigeons feasting on temple crumbs,
The explosive eloquence of plums;
Crowds picnicking merry
In snowy vistas of cherry,
Where perfumed avalanches
Slip from the laden branches;
Leap of the carp
To strike the wistaria's harp,
Garlands to deck the brow
Of the marble cow;

The pleasant croon
Of far secluded priests at noon
Gliding o'er lacquered floors,
Pacing long lines of orange corridors,
Where the dim gold Buddh of the altars
Nods to the hum of their psalters!
In the very incense smoke
Consecrate thy harmless joke;
Banter of paradoxes,
Folk-lore of badgers and foxes;
Fathers of families
Preaching droll homilies;
Children in merry hosts
Frightened by masks of ghosts,
Toasting rice-cakes on winter nights,
Battling with saw-stringed kites,
Sisters and brothers
Basking like kittens in the love of their mothers!

" O mother heart, pierced with keen
Anxieties that banish sleep
For sons who rove on the deep,
Pray to the holy snow-white Queen,
Spirit of Providence
Choosing her throne
On the cold gray stone,
In love intense
Sweeping with inner sense
O'er miles of watery waste,
Rushing in haste
Where cold billows lift monstrous lips
To suck in blasted hulls of ships!
Pray for the golden peace
Of the Buddha of Infinite Light!
Let the importunity cease
Of the Self who knocks in the night!
Make thy choice
Of the low inarticulate voice!
Save the man at thy breast
Who screams
At the sting of the gold in his dreams,
The unholy strife of the West! "

*****

O wing of the Empress of mountains!
So sang thy last poet at Kasŭga's fountains.
The chant of the vestals had ceased.
The moon was awake in the East.
The love-locked pine-branches o'er us
Tinkled their bells in sympathetic chorus;
And the willow wept
Where the violet smiled as she slept.
My heart too was swelling
With the tears of a love past telling.
But I said: —
" O blossom of life in a dew-starred bed,
Thou art too sweet for this earth,
Too exquisite to linger;
Like the peace of a blest babe who dies at birth,
Like the agony of tears
When the young mother robbed of its prayed-for years
Kisses the listless finger.
Say, on the feminine curves of thy plain
Rises no rock for a counter-strain?
Are there no trumpets to shriek
In the sleeping ear of the meek?
No comet to threaten the sun? "
Yes, there was one; —
One priest white-robed who seemed to glide
Like a ghost from the rock at my side,
With a smile that pierced like a sword
And a soul-compelling word.
And I heard him say,
As we fell on our knees to pray: —

" The fire of combat flashes
'Neath the grass-grown slopes of the ashes.
The planets are held in their places
By the struggles of mighty races.
Choice souls have forever come
To be trained for their martyrdom
Since the days when Kukai hurled
His dart from the Chinese world.
What can the dreaming people know
Of the tempest surging below,
Of the devils storming the very
Fort of the monastery?
He who would strangle an elf
Must first of all conquer himself;
The true knight
With his own heart fight,
Antagony
Of untold agony!
On no external god relying,
Self-armed, heaven and hell alike defying,
Lonely,
With bare will only,
Biting his bitter blood-stained sod; —
This for the world , as for Japan,
This is to be a man!
This is to be a god! "