| ALL the afternoon there has been a chirping of birds, | |
| And the sun lies warm and still on the western sides of swollen branches. | |
| There is no wind; | |
| Even the little twigs at the ends of the branches do not move, | |
| And the needles of the pines are solid | 5 |
| Bands of inarticulated blackness | |
| Against the blue-white sky. | |
| |
| Still, but alert; | |
| And my heart is still and alert, | |
| Passive with sunshine, | 10 |
| Avid of adventure. | |
| |
| I would experience new emotions, | |
| Submit to strange enchantments, | |
| Bend to influences | |
| Bizarre, exotic, | 15 |
| Fresh with burgeoning. | |
| |
| I would climb a sacred mountain, | |
| Struggle with other pilgrims up a steep path through pine-trees, | |
| Above to the smooth, treeless slopes, | |
| And prostrate myself before a painted shrine, | 20 |
| Beating my hands upon the hot earth, | |
| Quieting my eyes upon the distant sparkle | |
| Of the faint spring sea. | |
| |
| I would recline upon a balcony | |
| In purple curving folds of silk, | 25 |
| And my dress should be silvered with a pattern | |
| Of butterflies and swallows, | |
| And the black band of my obi | |
| Should flash with gold circular threads, | |
| And glitter when I moved. | 30 |
| I would lean against the railing | |
| While you sang to me of wars | |
| Past and to come— | |
| Sang, and played the samisen. | |
| |
| Perhaps I would beat a little hand drum | 35 |
| In time to your singing; | |
| Perhaps I would only watch the play of light | |
| Upon the hilt of your two swords. | |
| |
| I would sit in a covered boat, | |
| Rocking slowly to the narrow waves of a river, | 40 |
| While above us, an arc of moving lanterns, | |
| Curved a bridge, | |
| A hiss of gold | |
| Blooming out of darkness, | |
| Rockets exploded, | 45 |
| And died in a soft dripping of colored stars. | |
| We would float between the high trestles, | |
| And drift away from other boats, | |
| Until the rockets flared soundless, | |
| And their falling stars hung silent in the sky, | 50 |
| Like wistaria clusters above the ancient entrance of a temple. | |
| |
| I would anything | |
| Rather than this cold paper; | |
| With outside, the quiet son on the sides of burgeoning branches, | |
| And inside, only my books. | 55 |
