Laden with treasure, to and fro
'Twixt Kyoto and Tokyo
The ghost of old gift-bearers go.

Stately their antique cavalcade
Of sworded daimios arrayed
In kimonos of soft brocade.

Each with his boys and bearers by,
And doubly-bladed samurai
Of courteous mien yet watchful eye.

Still, as in other days, they seem
Along Tokaido-path to stream
With gifts to match a Shogun's dream;

For Hiroshige hands us down
In his rich green and blue and brown
These trooping lords 'twixt town and town.

And so thought I near New Year's Day,
Gazing upon their grand array
In an old print blown here astray:

— Those who within their heart of hearts
Treasure the Orient and her arts,
To whom the lover's rapture starts

— Before these perfect colour-prints —
To them this old procession hints,
In all its varied lines and tints,

— Of the procession through our lives
(Where much begins and naught arrives!)
Of gifts for which the fancy strives.

— But which, despite our toil and strain,
Our fairy-gold's elusive gain,
In fancy ruthlessly remain!

— . . . . Yet all too often underprized,
Are dreams that rest unrealized.

— Dreams, visions, pictures, ye are true!
Life's best is parcelled up of you,
Processionals green and gold and blue!

— Each day that swells the waxing year
Rich in old fabrics windeth near,
Gift-bringer, like the daimio here;

— And each is guarded closely by
A doubly-bladed samurai,
Hope and Rememberance on his thigh;

— And each hath his attendant boys
Whom, diligent, their lord employs
To bear us burdens of new joys! —