With rosy finger-tips the Dawn Drew back the silver veils, Till lilac shimmered into lawn Above the satin sails; And o’er the waters, white and wan, In tiny patterned state, We saw the streets of Old Japan Shine, like a willow plate. O, many a milk-white pigeon roams The purple cherry crops, The mottled miles of pearly domes, And blue pagoda tops, The river with its golden canes And dark piratic dhows, To where beyond the twisting vanes The burning mountain glows. A snow-peak in the silver skies Beyond that magic world, We saw the great volcano rise With incense o’er it curled, Whose tiny thread of rose and blue Has risen since time began, Before the first enchanter knew The peak of Old Japan. Nobody watched us quietly steer The pinnace to the painted pier, Except one pig-tailed mandarin, Who sat upon a chest of tea Pretending not to hear or see!... His hands were very long and thin, His face was very broad and white; And O, it was a fearful sight To see him sit alone and grin! His grin was very sleek and sly: Timidly we passed him by! He did not seem at all to care: So, thinking we were safely past, We ventured to look back at last. O, dreadful blank!—He was not there! He must have hid behind his chest: We did not stay to see the rest. But, as in reckless haste we ran, We came upon the tall thin man, Who called to us and waved his fan, And offered us his palanquin: He said we must not go alone To seek the ruby wishing-stone, Because the white-faced mandarin Would dog our steps for many a mile, And sit upon each purple stile Before we came to it, and smile And smile; his name was Creeping Sin. He played with children’s beating hearts, And stuck them full of poisoned darts And long green thorns that stabbed and stung: He’d watch until we tried to speak, Then thrust inside his pasty cheek His long, white, slimy tongue: And smile at everything we said; And sometimes pat us on the head, And say that we were very young: He was a cousin of the man Who said that there was no Japan. And night and day this Creeping Sin Would follow the path of the palanquin; Yet if we still were fain to touch The ruby, we must have no fear, Whatever we might see or hear, And the tall thin man would take us there; He did not fear that Sly One much, Except perhaps on a moonless night, Nor even then if the stars were bright. So, in the yellow palankeen We swung along in state between Twinkling domes of gold and green Through the rich bazaar, Where the cross-legged merchants sat, Old and almond-eyed and fat, Each upon a gorgeous mat, Each in a cymar; Each in crimson samite breeches, Watching his barbaric riches. Cherry blossom breathing sweet Whispered o’er the dim blue street Where with fierce uncertain feet Tawny pirates walk: All in belts and baggy blouses, Out of dreadful opium houses, Out of dens where Death carouses, Horribly they stalk; Girt with ataghan and dagger, Right across the road they swagger. And where the cherry orchards blow, We saw the maids of Miyako, Swaying softly to and fro Through the dimness of the dance: Like sweet thoughts that shine through dreams They glided, wreathing rosy gleams, With stately sounds of silken streams, And many a slim kohl-lidded glance; Then fluttered with tiny rose-bud feet To a soft frou-frou and a rhythmic beat As the music shimmered, pursuit, retreat, “Hands across, retire, advance!” And again it changed and the glimmering throng Faded into a distant song.