Classic Poem

1

Sing, Muse, the walk! With stick in hand,
And sun-hat swathed in summer white,
And figure clad in garments light,
On foot I journey through the land

What pleasure can compare with this?
To tread the long brown road; to pierce
Deep woods; to cross the torrent fierce;
To feel, at times, the sea-wind's kiss;

To follow, over rice-fields green,
The path which leads one — who knows where?
To climb the mountain's winding stair;
To thread the valleys set between.

Away! From mountain, wood, and shore,
Nature extends her loving hands
Behind me Nihom-Bashi stands —
The long Tokaido lies before.

2

This is the king's high-road; from east
To west, by the blue sea, it winds;
And Tokio to Kioto binds,
As two are wedded by the priest.

Along this pathway, brave and vain,
Once strode the samurai, feared by all;
And where my alien feet now fall
Once swept the haughty daimio's train.

Here jogged the pilgrim toward his shrine,
'Neath summer's sun, through winter's blast;
Here, in his norimono, passed
The kuge, flushed with fish and wine.

Here, from his battles in the west,
Came Iyeyasu, marching home
Yedo this eastern Caesar's Rome.
Where, from their wars, his clansmen rest.

3

In yonder grove, whose gilded fane,
Half-hidden, now meets the traveler's eye,
The immortal forty-seven lie.
Shall earth behold their like again?

Approach; but let no idle word,
No flippant phrase, profane the spot
Where died, with rites our race knows not,
That band whose tale the world has heard.

Still, by the path, springs, clear and deep,
The well in which the head was washed;
But where the ronins' swords once flashed,
Now seven-and-forty grave-stones weep.

Sengakuji, from far and near,
The pilgrim seeks thine honored shrine;
To ponder o'er each marble's line,
Or pay the tribute of a tear.

4

In Kamakura's groves of oak,
Imaged in bronze, the Buddha sits,
No pain o'er that calm forehead flits,
No pleasure from those lips e'er broke.

But, wrapped in contemplation deep,
He views this world of will and fate,
Himself possessor of that state,
Not life nor death, not wake nor sleep.

O deity of perfect rest,
To thee, from many an Asian home,
Through centuries have the weary come,
The poor, the weak, the sick, the oppressed!

Sitting serene, whate'er betide,
Thou knowest not passion's strong control;
So in Nirvana dwells the soul,
From pain and pleasure purified.