AMY LOWELL

As I wandered through the eight hundred and eight streets of the city, I saw nothing so beautiful As the Women of the Green Houses, With their girdles of spun gold, And their long-sleeved dresses, Coloured like the graining of wood. As they walk, The hems of their outer garments flutter open, And the blood-red linings glow like sharp-toothed maple leaves In Autumn.

As I crossed over the bridge of Ariwarano Narikira, I saw that the waters were purple With the floating leaves of maples.

Under the plum-blossoms are nightingales; But the sea is hidden in an egg-white mist, And they are silent.

The pool is edged with the blade-like leaves of irises. If I throw a stone into the placid water, It suddenly stiffens Into rings and rings Of sharp gold wire.

Walking beside the tree-peonies, I saw a beetle Whose wings were of black lacquer spotted with milk. I would have caught it, But it ran from me swiftly And hid under the stone lotus Which supports the statue of Buddha.

Beyond the porcelain fence of the pleasure-garden, I hear the frogs in the blue-green rice-fields; But the sword-shaped moon Has cut my heart in two.

If I could catch the green lantern of the firefly I could see to write you a letter.

Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River Are your words in the dark, Beloved.

When I am alone, The wind in the pine trees Is like the shuffling of waves Upon the wooden sides of a boat.

I thought:— The moon, Shining upon the many steps of the palace before me, Shines also upon the chequered rice-fields Of my native land. And my tears fell Like white rice grains At my feet.

Cold, wet leaves Floating on moss-coloured water, And the croaking of frogs— Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.

All day long I have watched the purple vine-leaves Fall into the water. And now in the moonlight they still fall, But each leaf is fringed with silver.

Silver-green lanterns tossing among windy branches: So an old man thinks Of the loves of his youth.

The great painter Hokusai, In his old age, Wrote these words: “Profiting by a beautiful Spring day, In this year of tranquillity, To warm myself in the sun, I received a visit from my publisher Who asked me to do something for him. Then I reflected that one should not forget the glory of arms, Above all when one was living in peace; And in spite of my age, Which is more than seventy years, I have found courage to draw those ancient heroes Who have been the models of glory.”

Once, in the sultry heats of Midsummer, An Emperor caused the miniature mountains in his garden To be covered with white silk, That so crowned They might cool his eyes With the sparkle of snow.

Being thirsty, I filled a cup with water, And, behold! Fuji-yama lay upon the water Like a dropped leaf!

A scholar, Weary of erecting the fragile towers of words, Went on a pilgrimage to Asama-yama. And seeing the force of the fire Spouting from this mighty mountain Hurled himself into its crater And perished.

The paper carp, At the end of its long bamboo pole, Takes the wind into its mouth And emits it at its tail. So is man, Forever swallowing the wind.

A wise man, Watching the stars pass across the sky, Remarked: In the upper air the fireflies move more slowly.

At Matsue, There was a Camellia Tree of great beauty, Whose blossoms were white as honey wax Splashed and streaked with the pink of fair coral. At night, When the moon rose in the sky, The Camellia Tree would leave its place By the gateway And wander up and down the garden, Trailing its roots behind it Like a train of rustling silk. The people in the house, Hearing the scrape of them upon the gravel, Looked out into the garden And saw the tree, With its flowers erect and peering, Pressed against the shōji. Many nights the tree walked about the garden, Until the women and children Became frightened, And the Master of the house Ordered that the tree be cut down. But when the gardener brought his axe And struck at the trunk of the tree, There spouted forth a stream of dark blood; And when the stump was torn up, The hole quivered like an open wound.