A VENETIAN PALACE

In quivering translucent light, Her head resting upon the blue pillow of the sky, Her feet upon the floor of the smoke-blue water, Sleeps Beauty, Turned to stone by a miracle of art.

And though she never stirs, But slumbers on in a worn and faded robe Rose-colored and bordered with old lace of ivory white, We come from far-off cities, And we turn to her our hungry eyes, Even away from sunlit sky and sea.

j.a.pANESE IRIS

A great prince of the ancient days Once loved a little geisha girl, Who wore a silken robe, Blue as the waters of the lily-pond.

But the Great Prince was sent to a distant island, And the little geisha girl Never put on her robe of blue again.

And you, O purple iris with the golden bands, Are the soul of the Great Prince; And you, O slender one, Blue as lapis lazuli, Are the soul of the little dancing-girl; And you nestle at last Beside your stately purple Prince, Here in the sunshine of my northern garden.

j.a.pANESE LOVE-SONGS

(_In the Hokku manner_)

I.

The white lotus-flower Grows in the depths of the pool, Love grows in my heart.

II.

The peony flames crimson.

My heart's blood is far redder Than its flame.

III.

Sere iris leaves and dead blossoms.

Mist and drizzle of rain.

Where art thou?

IV.

Darkness. Shadows in my soul.

The vision of your face.

Dawn and music.

V.

Hush of night. Perfumed breath of night.

A moth with flaming wings.

Come beloved.

CUPS OF JADE

The mists lie along the iris-purple valleys; The little wooden bridge, Where the waterfall rings its silver bells, Is a bow of darkness; The dust of the highway is gray as ashes under our feet; A cloud of night-birds Dots the orange sky.

All day our paths have led us side by side Along the steep hot highways.

It is cool evening now, And the temple bells call you one way And the silence calls me another.

We come to the white door-posts of your house, We leave our dusty shoes beside the little pool among the iris leaves.

We sit upon woven mats and you give me tea to drink From a cup of sea-green jade.

Now is my tongue heavy with thoughts I cannot utter, For I know that to-morrow My path will not lead over the steep hill, Nor yours down to the deep valley, For we have drunk together from cups of sea-green jade.

THE LOON'S CRY

Outside the tent Darkness and giant trees swaying in the wind.

The lake is moaning in its troubled sleep.

And far across the lazy lapping waves, Above the crooning of the wind, I hear a wild loon crying, Like a weary soul alone on the dark water.

Inside the tent Your gentle breathing, Untroubled by crooning wind or wailing loon; Your face is lighted by the embers of the fire.

Fainter and farther away echoes the loon's cry, But now it is only the voice of Loneliness Bidding me farewell, As it pa.s.ses away into the night.

You stir in your sleep softly And turn your face to me,-- And the loon cries no more.

PRAYER

I.

A wind-bell hung at the gateway of an ancient temple And played the music taught it by the wind, At times soft, like bubbles breaking in a fountain, When the breeze of summer night caressed it, Then loud and jangling when the typhoon swept across the sea, Or low and moaning when the temple gongs sounded for prayer.

And the people, Who never heard the music of the wind, Paused to listen to the wind-bell, And then pa.s.sed on through the temple gate, With music echoing in their ears.

O Maker of all music, Let me be as the wind-bell by the temple.

II.

Beyond the temple gate A gleaming pool lay among the iris leaves.

At dawn it glowed like a great rose upon the garden's breast, At sunset flamed like a crimson peony.

And the people, Who never lifted up their eyes to see the beauty of the sky, Would linger as they pa.s.sed from prayer To watch the sunrise or the sunset fade upon the pool, And then turn their steps to the gray dusty streets, With rose and gold and crimson in their eyes.

O Maker of all beauty, Let me be as the iris-bordered pool.