Far in the distance bugles blow, War's bloody memory wakes. The priest prays on--for his sons that are dead, And the heart within him breaks. FAR FUJIYAMA Against the phantom gold of failing skies I see the ghost of Fujiyama rise And think of the innumerable eyes That have beheld its vision sunset-crowned. The peasant in his field of rice or tea, The prince in gardens dreaming by the sea, The priest to whom the sêmi in the tree Was but some shrilling soul's incarnate sound. And as I think upon them, lo, the trance Of backward time and distant circumstance, Of Karma's all-remembering necromance, Lies suddenly before my boundless sight. It is as if, a moment, Buddhahood Were given to me; as if understood At last were vague Nirvana's vaguer good; As if time were dissolved in living light. ON MIYAJIMA MOUNTAIN (_To A. H. R._) Out on the sea the sampans ride And the mountains brim with mist and sun. O we are in Japan again And the spell is about us spun! The spell of the old enchanting East, Of Buddha and many a blissful priest, The spell that has never, never ceased To haunt us! Glad we behold the temple-tops And the lanterns in religious row Standing, like acolytes of stone, Where the pine and camphor grow. And o'er them the old pagoda prays Blessing upon their dreaming days, And upon the eightfold sacred ways From Sorrow! Ah, and the torii too is there Where the tranced sea enters to his shrine Daily, with tidal mystery And majesty divine. He enters now, as the nuptial sea Of love first entered our hearts, to be Lord of their tides eternally, And Master! OLD AGE I have heard the wild geese, I have seen the leaves fall, There was frost last night On the garden wall. It is gone to-day And I hear the wind call. The wind?... that is all. If the swallow will light When evening is near; If the crane will not scream Like a soul in fear; I will think no more Of the dying year, And the wind, its seer. ON THE YANG-TSE-KIANG Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junk And tatterdemalion sampan glide, Sails of brown and black and yellow swinging. Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junks Fish-eyed and gaudy take the tide, Forth to the sea in sloth they ride, The coolies singing. Off in the field the peasant toils And along the canal the low tows slip, Fruit of the red persimmon piled upon them. Off in the field the peasant toils-- With lip and brow the dull years strip Bare of the dreams of life, whose grip Has grimly drawn them. High on the hill the yamên rests And the temple beside it sleeps in sun, Far in the distance faints the city dreary. High on the hill the yamên rests, And dun dead shadows o'er it run: This is the land where Time begun And now grows weary. THE SEA-ARMIES