His heart, a hidden fountain, whence there ran
Through the hushed tenor of reclusive days,
Deep love of Nature, and the Soul of man,
In stately song and in melodious lays.

As years drift on and joys decline,
And life, grown gray with duty,
Sees no more sparkle on the wine,
Nor on the lips of beauty,
How blest is he whose soul can keep
The sacred flame still gleaming,
That makes our days one mystic sleep
Of hoping and of dreaming!

The clouds drift and the rivers flow,
Not caring how nor where they go,
And ev'ry sound of action seems
Like fairy music heard in dreams.
Why should we fret our peace away,
Who have so little time to stay?
Since Nature, with so much to do,
Can rest, let us be idle, too.

Throughout Yamato
May there grow abundantly
That wisdom-yielding
Herb which springs from secret seed,
Pregnant in the heart of man.

In summer evenings,
While I wait the rising moon,
And garden plants are
Being watered, fresh and fair,
Anxious thoughts no more molest.

Though ye are girded
No more with the gleaming sword
Ready for battle,
Forget not, in idle sloth,
Yamato's keen soul to whet.

The old man leaneth
On his staff; why grieve ye sore?
I would that he should
Totter on, life's hill-slope o'er,
Yet a thousand seasons more.

Since I am convinced
That Reality is in no way
Real,
How am I to admit
That dreams are dreams?

As for this world,
That way or this way—
It is the same thing;
For both palace and cottage
Come to nothing in the end.

My existence in the world has been
(As transitory as) the reflection of the moon
Which lodges in water
Gathered in the palm of the hand,
(About which one doubts) whether it is there or not!