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JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
BY YONE NOGUCHI 
 
 Seen and Unseen. 
 The Voice of the Valley. 
 From the Eastern Sea. 
 The Pilgrimage. 
 Lafcadio Hearn in Japan. 
 The Spirit of Japanese Poetry. 
 The Spirit of Japanese Art. 
 The Story of Yone Noguchi. 
 Ten Noh Plays. 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 BY 
 
 YONE NOGUCHI y 
 
 Boston 
 
 The Four Seas Company 
 
 1920 
 
 ^^f 
 
 Zi 
 
Copyright, ip2o\by\<^Z*yjjJ^ 
 
 The Four Seas Company"^ 
 
 The Four Seas Press 
 Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 
 
 : «w,^ 
 
 U 1^ , i_ : \<JC 
 
 ©CU601179 
 
 's-.* 
 
 *V», rt /L- 
 
TO 
 WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 
 
PREFACE 
 
 j^'he word epigram is not right word (and there's 
 
 \.o right word at all) for Hokku, the seventeen 
 
 j/llable poem of Japan, just as overcoat is not 
 
 le word for our haori. "That is good," I ex- 
 
 laimed in spite of myself, when I found this 
 
 bmparison. We know that haori is more, or 
 
 :ss, according to your attitude, than the overcoat 
 
 f Western garb which rises and falls with prac- 
 
 ^cal service; when I say more, I mean that our 
 
 iipanese haori is unlike the western overcoat, 
 
 piece of art and besides, a symbol of rite, as 
 
 3 usefulness appears often when it means prac- 
 
 cally nothing. If I rightly understand the word 
 
 Digram, it is or at least looks to have one object, 
 
 iice that overcoat of practical use, to express 
 
 )mething, a Cathay of thought or not, before 
 
 self; its beauty, if it has any, is like that of a 
 
 etsuke or okimono carved in ivory or wood, 
 
 ecorative at the best. But what our Hokku 
 
 [7] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 aims at is, like the haori of silk or crepe, a use 
 fulness of uselessness, not what it expresses butjpi 
 how it expresses itself spiritually; its real valu^ thick 
 is not in its physical directness but in its psycho-ijf 
 logical indirectness. To use a simile, it is lik^m 
 a dew upon lotus leaves of green, or under mapl^verys 
 leaves of red, which although it is nothing but s 
 trifling drop of water, shines, glitters anc 
 sparkles now pearl-white, then amethyst-blue 
 again ruby-red according to the time of day andcoUecl 
 situation; better still to say, this Hokku is lik^Erfi 
 a spider- thread laden with the white summeJdidSi 
 dews, swaying among the branches of a tree lik^of 
 an often invisible ghost in air, on the perfecpout 
 balance; that sway indeed, not the thread itself 
 is the beauty of our seventeen syllable poem 
 
 I can not forget Mrs. N. S. who came to seeJoursel 
 me at the poppy-covered mountainside of Calii 
 fornia one morning, now almost seventeen year^andp} 
 ago; what I cannot forget chiefly about thai at 
 morning is her story that she made a roundabout 
 
 [8] 
 
 w 
 
 H 
 
feet'; 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 svay in entering into my garden as the little 
 t)roper path had been blocked by a spider-net 
 114 hick with diamonds. I exclaimed, then, as I do 
 )ften today, "Such a dear sweet soul (that could 
 lot dare break that silvery thread) would be the 
 ipbl^ery soul who will appreciate our Hokku." 
 it a; I confess that I secretly desired to become a 
 and)|:Iokku poet in my younger days, that is now 
 wenty years ago, and I used to put the Hokku 
 an(l; collection of Basho or Buson with Spencer's 
 \k)]^ducation in the same drawer of my desk; what 
 meiiliid Spencer mean, you might wonder, for a boy 
 )f sixteen or seventeen? I myself wonder today 
 ibout it when I look back on it; but it was the 
 T^ounger day of new Japan when even we boys 
 bought to educate others before being educated 
 ij)urselves (there was Spencer's Education) , and 
 ve wished to swallow all the Western wisdom 
 ;ar|)md philosophy, Spencer or Darwin or what else, 
 lit a gulp. I used to pass through Shiba Park 
 amous for the Sleeping Houses of the Feudal 
 
 [9] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 'estern 
 
 rthly 
 
 Princes and also for the pine forest towering 
 over the mortality and age, towards my schooli 
 at Mita, whither today I turn my steps againl^t 
 to tell the Japanese students about the Englishh' 
 poets born in the golden clime, or other 
 clime; and I often looked up with irresistible! fol*^ I 
 longing of heart, to a little cottage on a hillii^^'^f 
 in this sacred park where Yeiki Kikakudo,'®) 
 the descendant of the famous Hokku poet! 
 Kikaku in poetical lineage, used to live in! 
 his seventieth year. I cannot recollect now ex- 
 actly how I happened to call on him one night 
 except from my impulse and determination that| 
 my meeting with him was thought necessary for 
 my poetical development; it was the night of|i 
 Meigetsu, the full moon of September, when 
 many wanderers like myself, moths restless afterije; 
 
 w 
 serve 
 
 its 
 wkr 
 i,sat 
 lich 
 
 soul's sensation, could be seen in the park 
 through the shadows of trees. The little house, 
 I mean that of Master Yeiki, so small that it 
 might be comfortably put in any ordinary-sized 
 
 [10] 
 
 I wk 
 
'ther 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 ring western drawing-room, was deadly silent with 
 
 light lighted ; I thought at once that it was the 
 
 et's beautiful consideration towards the moon 
 
 lose heavy light, not being disturbed by any 
 
 -thly lamp, might thus have full sway. I met 
 
 tibleji old poet sitting on the step under the golden 
 Dwer of the light, when I climbed up to his 
 use, he led me within the house where the 
 jji doors all open welcomed the moon with 
 [-fashioned hospitality. Indeed, that should 
 the way to treat the celestial guest ; when you 
 serve how the Japanese moonlight crawls in 
 :h its fairy-like golden steps, you will wonder 
 w humanized it is here. We two, young and 
 ;[, sat silent, leaving all the talk to the breezes 
 ich carried down the moon's autumnal mes- 
 ;e ; the light fell on the hanging at the tokono- 
 whereon I read the following Hokku poem: 
 
 Autumn's full moon: 
 
 Lo, the shadows of a pine tree 
 
 Upon the mats ! 
 
 [1.1] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 Really it was my first opportunity to observe t 
 full beauty of the light and shadow, more tl 
 beauty of the shadow in fact far more lumino 
 than the light itself, with such a decorativene^ 
 particularly when it stamped the dustless ma 
 as a dragon-shaped, ageless pine tree; I thank 
 Kikaku, the author of the above lines, for givii 
 me just the point to find the natural beauty, J'^^"' 
 which my imagination should have play enou^ 
 I bowed to the Poet Yeiki for good-night, a 
 thanked him for the most interesting talk, i 
 though we had spoken scarcely a word, but 
 was perfectly tickled in delight as already th 
 the old story of Emerson and Carlyle who h; 
 a happy chat in silence was known to me. Wh 
 I left him, the moon was quite high, under who 
 golden blessing all the trees and birds hurried 
 dream; it was exactly such a night on whi 
 only two or three years ago I wrote the f ollowiiter, n 
 lines : 
 
 [12] 
 
 kaul 
 
 ppose 
 iontlK 
 
 iin 
 
!rve' 
 
 ;s 
 hanki 
 
 thd 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Across the song of night and moon, 
 t Across the song of night and moon, 
 (O perfume of perfumes!) 
 My soul, as a wind 
 Whose heart's too full to sing. 
 Only roams astray ... 
 
 eed, how I wandered that night, now thinking 
 this poet, then on that Hokku poem ; I clearly 
 lember it was the very night that I felt fully 
 beauty of the following impromptu in Hokku 
 Basho : 
 
 Shall I knock 
 
 At Miidera Temple's gate? 
 
 Ah, moon of to-night! 
 
 ppose you stand at that temple's gate high 
 )n the hill lapped and again lapped by the slow 
 ter, with your dreamy face towards this Lake 
 va in the shape of a biwa-lute, which, as a 
 [13] 
 
irk of 
 
 JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 certain poetess has written, "like a shell of whWokli 
 lies dropped by the passing day." I am sure yj W 
 will feel yourself to be a god or goddess in t 
 beginning of the world as in the Japanese n^tance, 
 thology, who by accident or mystery has ris 
 above the opalescent mists which softly cover t 
 earth of later night. 
 
 I did not forget to carry with me the Hoklj 
 collection of Basho or Buson or some other pq 
 in my American life, even when I did the s 
 called tramp life in 1896- 1898 through the Ca 
 fornia field full of buttercups, by the mounta^^^s, 
 where the cypress tree beckoned my soul to fl 
 not merely because the thought of home ar 
 longing for it was then my only comfort, 
 more because by the blessing of the book, I me^ 
 the Hokku book, I entered straight into the grei 
 heart of Nature ; when I left the Pacific Slope 
 later years towards the Eastern cities built by til 
 modern civilization and machineries, I suddenip 
 thought I had lost the secret understanding 
 
 [14] 
 
 lepoe 
 
 t 
 
 •akusi 
 tore 
 PnS( 
 
wliiii Hokku poems born in Japan, insignificant like 
 ireyi^akeside reed and irresponsible like a dragon- 
 ; how could you properly understand, for 
 tance, the following Hokku poem in New 
 irk of skyscrapers and automobiles: 
 
 Hold 
 :rpoi 
 
 lie Si^ 
 
 iintaji;' 
 
 to 
 
 lei 
 
 !grei 
 ope 
 
 byi 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A cloud of flowers! 
 Is it the bell of Uyeno 
 Or that of Asakusa? 
 
 e poet, by the way Basho, means the cloud of 
 tvers, of course, in Mukojima of Tokyo, whose 
 Drous profusion shuts out every prospect and 
 »ught of geographical sense, of East or West ; 
 Jjen to the bell ringing from the distance! 
 es it come from the temple of Uyeno or 
 akusa? Why, it is the poem of a Spring 
 ture of the river Sumida. 
 I'n September of 1904, I returned home; the 
 der silken autumnal rain that was Japanese 
 ;try, and my elder brother welcomed me (what 
 
 [15] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 a ghost tired and pale I was then), and I wj 
 taken to his house in the Nihonbashi district c 
 Tokyo to wash off my foreign dust and slow' 
 renew my old acquaintance with things Japanes 
 Oh, that memorable first night after thirtedly 
 years abroad! I spent it alone in the upstai][)oi 
 room where I was left to sleep. I did not fa| 
 asleep for many many hours on my floor in 
 Japanese fashion; and my nostrils could n( 
 make themselves free from a strange Japane; 
 smell, indeed the soy smell, which I thought w'< 
 crawling from the kitchen. As I said, the raj 
 dropped quite incessantly; the lampHght burn^'"''^^' 
 feebly; and I was alone. Listen! What w<;'*'' 
 that I heard? Well, it was a cricket smgir 
 under the roof or behind the hanging at tl 
 tokonoma. I exclaimed then, "Was it possib 
 to hear the cricket in the very centre of tl 
 metropolis?" My mind at once recalled tl 
 following Hokku poem by Issa: 
 
 [16] 
 
 knev 
 liiss 
 teal) 
 t m 
 
 h 
 \ m I 
 at till 
 let of 
 'emsii 
 )Don 
 rticul; 
 
icto 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Let me turn over, 
 Pray, go away, 
 Oh, my cricket! 
 
 "y thought dwelt for a long while that night 
 
 )on Issa, the Hokku poet at the mountainside 
 
 fak' Shinshu, and his shabby hut "of clay and 
 
 intljljattles made" where he indeed lived with them; 
 
 benever I read him, the first thing to strike me 
 
 his simple sympathy with a small living thing 
 
 :e a butterfly or this cricket, that was in truth 
 
 e sure proof of his being a poet. Although I 
 
 d often read the above poem, I can say that I 
 
 ver felt its humanity so keenly as that night. 
 
 When Mr. Aston published A History of Jap- 
 
 ese Literature quite many years ago, I know 
 
 at the part about Basho, the greatest Hokku 
 
 et of the seventeenth century, and the Hokku 
 
 ems in general, did not make a proper impres- 
 
 'n on the Western mind. And here I have no 
 
 rticular intention to force on your appreciation 
 
 [17] 
 
npresi 
 uriiK 
 
 JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 with this Japanese form of poetry; I am her 
 only to express my own love for it. When w 
 say that the East is the same as the West, w 
 mean that the West is as different from the Ea$j 
 as the East is from the West; how could yo 
 understand us through and through ! Poetry il [^ 
 the most difficult art ; it will lose the greater pai 
 of its significance when parted from its bacl< j, 
 ground and the circumstances from which i 
 springs forth. I should like to ask who in thL 
 West will be able to think the following Hokk 
 poem the greatest of its kind as we Japanes ^^^j^ 
 once thought: j^j^t^^, 
 
 It air 
 
 iiceo 
 leir u 
 
 leHo: 
 
 n 
 
 On a withered twig, 
 
 Lo, the crow is sitting there, 
 
 Oh, this Autumn eve! 
 
 Even to us, I confess, this soHtariness of a Jaij,w 
 anese Autumn evening with the crow cryin^^^, 
 rnonotonously on the tree is growing lately les, 
 
 [18] 
 
her 
 
 Eas 
 
 h 
 
 try 
 rparf 
 
 :ryin 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 ^Qpressive, when in fact as today the crows be- 
 'ome scarce before the factories and smoke; and 
 ar modern heterogeneous minds are beginning 
 i turn somewhere else. 
 
 I declare myself to be an adherent of this 
 !okku poem in whose gem-small form of utter- 
 ice our Japanese poets were able to express 
 eir understanding of Nature, better than that, 
 sing or chant their longing or wonder or 
 ioration towards Mother Nature; to call the 
 okku poem suggestive is almost wrong, al- 
 ough it has become a recent fashion for the 
 Western critics to interpret, not only this Hokku 
 It all Japanese poetry by that one word, because 
 e Hokku poem itself is distinctly clear-cut like 
 diamond or star, never mystified by any cloud 
 • mist like Truth or Beauty of Keats' under- 
 anding. It is all very well if you have a 
 ggestive attitude of mind in reading it; I say 
 at the star itself has almost no share in the 
 eation of a condition even when your dream 
 
 [19] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 or vision is gained through its beauty. I att)wca 
 only pleased to know that the star had such ar by a 
 influence upon you ; and I am willing to endorse 
 you when you say the Hokku poem is suggestiv^ 
 in the same sense that truth and humanity ar^ 
 suggestive. But I can say myself that you^^ 
 poem would certainly end in artificiality if yoi| 
 start out to be suggestive from the beginning 
 I value the Hokku poem, at least some of them 
 because of its own truth and humanity simpl< 
 and plain. Let me say for once and all there i 
 
 Her J; 
 slice 1 
 ebesi 
 
 no word in so common use by Western critic^' 
 as suggestive, which makes more mischief thaij 
 enhghtenment, although they mean it quite simp 
 ly, of course, to be a new force or salvation; '. 
 apologize to you for my digression when I sajPP"^^ 
 that no critic is necessary for this world o 
 poetry. Who will criticise truth or humanity 
 I always thought that the most beautiful flowerl 
 grow close to the ground, and they need no hun 
 dred petals for expressing their own beauty 
 
 [20] 
 
 :empti 
 texac 
 em,H 
 other ( 
 
arfr 
 
 :reii:i 
 riticsi 
 
 inity 
 
 auty 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 w can you call it real poetry if you cannot tell 
 aijiiby a few words? Therefore these seventeen 
 
 jilables are just enough at least to our Japanese 
 5^'^find. And if you cannot express all by one 
 
 'jokku, then you can say it in many Hokkus 
 s, that is all. 
 y°f I Although I was quite loyal to this seventeen 
 liable form of Japanese poetry during many 
 ars of my foreign wandering, I had scarcely 
 y moment to write a Hokku in original Jap- 
 ese or English. To translate Hokku or any 
 ler Japanese poem into English rarely does 
 ;tice to the original; it is a thankless task at 
 i best. What do you say, if there is one, 
 Dpose, who brings down the spider-net and 
 
 jjempts to hang it up in another place? Is it 
 : exactly the case with a translator of Japanese 
 
 \tm, Hokku or Uta, whatever it be? To use 
 Dther expression, what would you say if some- 
 iy ventured to imitate with someone^s fountain 
 [21] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 pen the Japanese picture drawn with the bambo 
 brush and incensed Indian ink? 
 
 We confess that we have shown, to spea 
 rather bluntly, very little satisfaction even wit 
 the translation of Professor Chamberlain and tr ' 
 late Mr. Aston; when I say that I was amaze 
 at their literary audacity, I hope that my wore 
 will never be taken as sarcasm. With due r^ 
 spect, I dare say that nearly all things lea\ 
 something to be desired for our Japanese min< 
 or to say more truly, have something too muc 
 that we do not find in the original, as a rcsu 
 they only weaken, confuse and trouble the rcj 
 atmosphere. I 
 
 During many years of my Western life, no; 
 amid the California forest, then by the skyscra] 
 ers of New York, again in the London 'bus, i [^^i 
 often tried to translate the Hokku of our o 
 masters. I had written the following in Enj 
 lish: 
 
 [22] 
 
 'arl,t 
 fliere' 
 letho 
 iipe: 
 
 kve 
 a' 
 
 Hen 
 
leavf! 
 
 ere; 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 My Love's lengthened hair 
 Swings o'er me from Heaven's gate: 
 spea^l Lo, Evening's shadow! 
 
 was in London, to say more particularly, Hyde 
 
 ark, that I wrote the above Hokku in English, 
 
 ihere I walked slowly, my mind being filled with 
 
 e thought of the long hair of Rossetti's women 
 
 1 1 perhaps had visited Tate's Gallery that after- 
 
 )on ; pray, believe me when I say the dusk that 
 
 iscended from the sky swung like that length- 
 
 led hair. I exclaimed then: "Thank God that 
 
 have a moment to feel a Hokku feeling and 
 
 rite about it in English." Let me wait patient- 
 
 f or a moment to come when I become a Hokku 
 
 )et in my beloved English. 
 
 scroll Here I beg to present you some English 
 
 okku poems I had written lately. 
 
 YONE NOGUCHI 
 
 [23] 
 
NOTE 
 
 Some of these poems are written ii 
 measure of seventeen syllables, and th( 
 others are more free in forms. But tht; 
 Japanese Hokku spirit, I believe, runj 
 through all of them. 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
Suppose the stars 
 
 Fall and break ? — Do they ever sound 
 
 Like my own love song? 
 
 [27] 
 
A temple by the clouds. 
 
 Down march the days and the pains. 
 
 What hear I, brothers? 
 
 [28] 
 
What is life? A voice, 
 
 A thought, a Hght on the dark,- 
 
 Lo, crow in the sky. 
 
 [29] 
 
Some one at my door? 
 Go away, go, — go away! 
 Good night, sir or madam. 
 
 [30] 
 
The seas sleep. The stars — 
 
 They are where? Oh my loneliness! 
 
 I gaze on my heart. 
 
 [31] 
 
6 
 
 The faint shadow of the morning moon? 
 Nay, the snow faUing on the earth. 
 The mist of blossoming flowers? 
 Nay, poetry smiUng up the sky. 
 
 [32] 
 
The far-away sky, 
 
 The white billow in distance, 
 
 And the expanse of Life and World. 
 
 [33] 
 
8 
 
 Sudden pain of earth 
 I hear in the fallen leaf. 
 "Life's autumn," I cry. 
 
 [34J 
 
9 
 
 My memory-bird, 
 
 To the night's rhythm, soft and sad. 
 
 Ghost, art thou not tired? 
 
 85 
 
10 
 
 Lift anchor, life-ship ! 
 
 Love's red seas, white fancy-birds. 
 
 Behold! and the blue. 
 
 [36] 
 
11 
 
 At eve, 
 
 By a grass-made hut, 
 
 The winds pass on. 
 
 Saying something to the rice-plant leaves. 
 
 I am knocking at the door of Life, — 
 Is nobody in? 
 
 [37] 
 
12 
 
 Leaves blown, 
 Birds flown away. 
 
 I wander in and out the Hall of Autumn. 
 
 [38] 
 
IS 
 
 Oh, canst thou hear 
 
 The love talk of the man-star 
 
 With the star- woman? 
 
 [39] 
 
14 
 
 Is it that the banner blows? 
 Is what is blowing the wind? 
 
 Life? or death? 
 
 Child, neither the banner nor the wind blows 
 No life and death but in thy mind. 
 Phantom that is seen and dies ! 
 
 [40] 
 
15 
 
 Lord, how long hast thou 
 
 To spin the love-threads for dress ?- 
 
 The love-threads of rain. 
 
 [41] 
 
16 
 
 Are the fallen stars 
 Returning up the sky?- 
 The dews on the grass. 
 
 [42] 
 
17 
 
 Shadow ! There's shadow ! 
 
 Heaven's shadow! Shadow! Shadow 
 
 Of my far-off thought! 
 
 [43] 
 
18 
 
 Is it a fallen leaf? 
 That's my soul sailing on 
 The silence of Life. 
 
 [44] 
 
19 
 
 Behold the sky where the cuckoo sung,- 
 iThere remains the morning moon. 
 
 Behold the world where Life cried, — 
 There remains poetry. 
 
 [45] 
 
20 
 
 (From Buson) 
 
 "Let day pass, 
 
 "Let night break," — 
 
 So the frogs sing morning and eve. 
 
 46] 
 
21 
 
 By the path of the breeze, 
 
 Love lone but happy sings and roams. 
 
 I gather the petals of thought, 
 Nursed by the slumber of peace. 
 
 [47] 
 
22 
 
 Truth, like moon of day and night, 
 Ever perfect, all silent and gold. 
 Shed thy light over sorrow. 
 Make me regain my rest and song. 
 
 [48] 
 
23 
 
 The voice falls like a dream, 
 Across the light of forget fulness. 
 
 Eternity rolled in love, 
 
 Bids the visible world to sing. 
 
 [49] 
 
24 
 
 Oh, my own self in the barge 
 Laden with the memory of mists, 
 Gliding down by the life-grey stream. 
 
 150] 
 
25 
 
 I, a moth with no sense of the day, 
 
 Dare not fly, 
 
 Lest the silence be marred. 
 
 151] 
 
26 
 
 A breeze forgotten by life, 
 Steps from thought to thought. 
 
 Oh, peace gained by hushed prayer! 
 
 [52] 
 
27 
 
 The silence-leaves fallen from Life, 
 Older than dream or pain, — 
 Are they my passing ghost? 
 
 [53], 
 
28 
 
 "Ghost of my soul," I shout, 
 "That cries only to curse me?" 
 Tip, tip, tip . . . thus the rain falls. 
 
 [54] 
 
29 
 
 ill of faults, you say. 
 hat beauty in repentance! 
 ;ars, songs . . . thus life flows 
 
 [55] 
 
30 
 
 Bits of song . . . what else? 
 I, a rider of the stream, 
 Lone between the clouds. 
 
 [56] 
 
31 
 
 ^hat's the way that the stars grow old, 
 s it only that life has to pass away? 
 
 )h, monotonous song that makes me hate myself, 
 ;!ong of sadness, song of fate! 
 
 [57] 
 
32 
 
 Is it not the cry of a rose to be saved? 
 
 Oh, how could I, 
 
 When I, in fact, am the rose ! 
 
 r68] 
 
33 
 
 e has no time to think of others, he is an egoist 
 
 is enthusiasm turns to silence, — 
 
 )sing words, 
 
 e gains his own personality. 
 
 f69] 
 
34 
 
 There's a moment the flower falls into false art, 
 It's where the poet into mannerism falls too. j 
 
 It's accident to exist as a flower or a poet : 
 A mere twist of evolution but irom the samel 
 force. 
 
 [60] 
 
35 
 
 Song of sea in rain, 
 
 Voice of the sky, earth and men! 
 
 List, song of my heart. 
 
 161] ^ 
 
 # 
 
36 
 
 But the march to Life . . . 
 Break song to sing the new song! 
 Clouds leap, flowers bloom. 
 
 [62] 
 
37 
 
 To become tree-man, 
 
 Oh, songs given back by the winds ! 
 
 What joy of no-man. 
 
 [63 
 
38 
 
 I see no form but only beauty in evidence : 
 Oh, imagination and desire, makers of the lit 
 and art! 
 
 To be the dancer is to make the singer sing. 
 
 [64] 
 
39 
 
 awled? Whereto? I know nothing except 
 
 my desire 
 t hunt after the hidden love, — 
 Hamlet across the night and pain. 
 
 [65] 
 
40 
 
 Is it the pillar by which I reach the sky? 
 
 Is it the hill whereon I put my faith? 
 
 Is it eternity where songs may find their horn 
 
 [66] 
 
41 
 
 The ancient song of my heart 
 Comes and goes in Life's light. 
 
 Sudden, a glow, a rainbow. 
 
 Draws its line across the breast of my soul. 
 
 [67] 
 
42 
 
 Fallen leaves ! Nay, spirits ? 
 Shall I go downward with thee 
 By a stream of fate? 
 
 [68] 
 
43 
 
 Lo, light and shadow 
 Journey to the home of night 
 Thou and I — to love! 
 
 [69] 
 
44 
 
 This way? or that way? 
 
 Where's the very street to Heaven? 
 
 What webs of streets! 
 
 [70] 
 
45 
 
 Waking or sleeping? 
 
 Oh, "No-more" older than world ! 
 
 Be 'way, earthly care! 
 
 [71] 
 
46 
 
 Speak not again, Voice! 
 The silence washes off sins 
 Come not again, Light! 
 
 [72] 
 
47 
 
 The seas are passion-red, 
 The willows humanity-green. 
 
 'Tis thy dream to make the rainbow sing, 
 To make a stone leap to the sky. 
 
 [73] 
 
48 
 
 It is too late to hear a nightingale ? 
 Tut, tut, tut, . . . some bird sings,- 
 That's quite enough, my friend. 
 
 [74] 
 
49 
 
 Dh, to part now, does it mean that we shall 
 
 meet never again? 
 I To have done forever with joy, thou and I, 
 Than to begin with pain again! 
 
 [75] 
 
50 
 
 I shall cry to thee across the years ? 
 Wilt thou turn thy face to respond 
 To my own tears with thy smile? 
 
 [76] 
 
51 
 
 iThe voice of the rockets — 
 IThen the flash. 
 
 Is it not that of my soul born to please the 
 
 I people below, 
 
 STo take pain of death in her keeping alone? 
 
 [77] 
 
52 
 
 To face only the sky and forget the land, 
 Oh, to become a rider of the winds ! 
 
 What a joy to find a greater song amid th^ 
 clouds ! 
 
 [78] 
 
53 
 
 What is it? Is it 
 
 The great voice of Judgment Day? 
 
 Lo, pilgrim's of waves. 
 
 [79] 
 
54 
 
 Where the flowers sleep, 
 Thank God! I shall sleep, to-night, 
 To my own tears with thy smile? 
 
 [80] 
 
55 
 
 i e to the arts shouts : 
 
 behold, ladies and gentlemen, the great equi- 
 
 I librium 
 
 Inly accomplished once in a thousand times!" 
 
 [81] 
 
56 
 
 I wish to be like a hurrying, rock-hurling mot 
 
 tain stream, 
 Its double torrents by the road of love will m 
 
 in the end. 
 
 [82] 
 
57 
 
 I row across the expanse of sea, 
 
 And the far-away sky, — 
 
 I row across the white billows of pain. 
 
 [83] 
 
58 
 
 The fickle waves of a strand do drench m 
 
 sleeves with sprays : 
 My songs cry only to make the stars sing. 
 
 W 
 
 [84] 
 
59 
 
 The maple leaves on the mountain top would 
 
 wait for a king's train to pass once more, 
 IvVhy will my life wait for my own song? 
 
 [85] 
 
60 
 
 How sweet is to sleep! 
 
 Is there any more sweet word than good-nii 
 
 ac( 
 •eyti 
 
 [86] 
 
61 
 
 a cobweb hung upon the tree, 
 ■ey to wind and sunlight ! 
 will say that we are safe and strong ? 
 
 [87] 
 
62 
 
 (From Ransetsu) 
 To-day, at last to-day, 
 I grew to wish to raise 
 The chrysanthemum flowers. 
 
 [88] 
 
63 
 
 (From Basho) 
 
 Ah, how subhme. — 
 
 The green leaves, the young leaves, 
 
 In the light of the sun! 
 
 [89] 
 
64 
 
 (From Ransetsu) 
 
 Yellow chrysanthemum, white chrysanthemum 
 
 Why, the other names for me 
 
 Are of no use. 
 
 [90] 
 
65 
 
 I turned my face not to see 
 
 Flowers or leaves; 
 
 'Tis the autumn eve 
 
 With the falling light. 
 
 How solitary the cottage stands 
 
 By the sea! 
 
 [91] 
 
66 
 
 (From Basho) 
 
 Lying ill on journey, 
 
 Ah, my dream 
 
 Run about the ruin of fields. 
 
 [92] 
 
67 
 
 (From Buson) 
 Slow passing days 
 Gathered, gathering, — 
 Alas, past far-away, distant! 
 
 [93] 
 
68 
 
 Oh, How cool — 
 The sound of the bell 
 That leaves the bell itself. 
 
 [94] 
 
69 
 
 Where's cherry blossom? 
 
 The trace of the garden's breeze is seen no more, 
 
 '. will point, if I am asked, 
 
 Po my fancy snow upon the ground. 
 
 [95] 
 
70 
 
 O Matsu San and O Cho San sing well, 
 But O Hana San is the best to sing. 
 
 To-day I am alone with a flute 
 Upon the emptiness of the blue. 
 
 [96] 
 
71 
 
 The nightingales under the boughs, 
 Sighing now white, now red, 
 Sing a pearl song 
 Over the greyness of earth. 
 
 [97] 
 
72 
 
 The snow, like silent army, hurries to t 
 
 ground ; 
 I, by the fireside, lonely watch the yellow had 
 
 of flame, 
 Uplifting as if in prayer. 
 
 I look around into the silence of the night. 
 
 H 
 
 [98] 
 
73 
 
 [\ I hide myself behind the biggest billow,- 
 Oh, what a deUght! 
 How my poor doves search after me! 
 
 [99] 
 
74 
 
 Farewell, I go to the sea 
 
 Where a hidden race chants toward the stars, 
 
 Where the thirsty clouds dip in the oldest wir 
 
 ) 
 
 [100] 
 
75 
 
 (From Ki no Tomonori) 
 Tis the spring day 
 With lovely far-away light. 
 Why must the flowers fall 
 With hearts unquiet? 
 
 [101] 
 
76 
 
 (From Oye no Chizato) 
 
 To gaze upon the moon 
 
 Is to be sad in a thousand ways, 
 
 Though all the autumns 
 
 Are not meant to be my own self's alone. 
 
 [102] 
 
77 
 
 Is there anything new under the sun? 
 
 Certainly there is. 
 
 See how a bird flies, how flowers smile ! 
 
 [103] 
 
78 
 
 I sit by a charcoal brazier; 
 
 Silence in the wind without calms my thought 
 
 I ask myself if the fire is not my own self. 
 What are the fire-sticks that mock, cheat, pla) 
 
 with and stir my soul ? 
 Oh, fire-sticks of my imagination, handle it kind 
 It will soon pass away, like the fire, into dust 
 
 the silence. 
 
 [104] 
 
79 
 
 The sunlight of morn 
 
 Steps into my soul of dream, and says 
 
 "What a wilderness art thou!" 
 
 [105] 
 
80 
 
 With irony in look, 
 
 Poetry peeps into my heart. 
 
 'Doest thou carry a little intrigue on thy shoul 
 ders?" I say. 
 
 [106] 
 
81 
 
 ^et me rise from life's dust, 
 .nd save myself from pains. 
 jV^ho will come with me for an hour's carnival? 
 
 [107] 
 
82 
 
 Creator of attitude and art, 
 Singer of life's intoxication, of youthfulness and 
 revolt. 
 
 Oh, spring extravagant and proud! 
 
 [108] 
 
83 
 
 (From Saigio) 
 
 Know I not at all who is within, 
 
 But from the heart of gratitude, 
 
 My tears fall, 
 
 Again my tears fall ... 
 
 [109] 
 
84 
 
 The wind shook her hair of gloom; 
 
 The bleak sun flew down the way the sorrc 
 
 comes forth. 
 My soul swings 
 As if a willow leaf. 
 
 [110] 
 
■ EPILOGUE 
 
 I Our thoughts and emotions are only the con- 
 inuation of the thoughts and emotions of our 
 
 j 
 
 mcestors, which were often left hidden, unex- 
 pressed, happily for us, but always in existence, 
 ^ke the touch of air; while our thoughts may 
 ippear so sudden, frighteningly new, they have 
 iomewhere a link, sure like the stars, if you have 
 0es to see, with those of our progenitors. We 
 value what the ancestors expressed, because we 
 pan read at the same time, what they left unex- 
 pressed. I have no hesitation to say that the 
 poets who sing like Byron or that golden-tongued 
 Tennyson are admirable; but the good modern 
 ij poets, no particular names mentioned, are unique 
 at least on account of their inability (ability per- 
 haps) in singing. It takes much talent to de- 
 scribe the outward beauty, and, true to say, even 
 some original gift to appreciate it; but your real 
 
 [HI] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 lapi 
 all; 
 
 
 CO 
 
 courage will be proved in your entire loss 
 desire of outward things. One can be taug| 
 by another how to see and understand the ou 
 ward beauty, but there's hardly any guidance | 
 the invisible matter, and you are your own guic 
 alone in the world, in your change from t 
 visible to the spiritual. It is easy to change yo] 
 dress and hat according to the season and stylj 
 
 but the outside attire, even the best kind, is of i 
 
 i 
 avail for your spiritual change. It is natur 
 
 course to enter the invisible from the visible, 
 
 you step into night from day; but you must 
 
 it come after having enough satisfaction of t 
 
 outward things. The mellow perfection of t^ 
 
 night only comes after all the splendour of t 
 
 sun. 
 
 As for me, I have no strong love with tl 
 
 outward things, and always take a deep delig'j 
 
 in the little inward world — the largest world 
 
 haps — of my creation, and rarely sing the visi 
 
 beauty. Is it because I am philosophical? P 
 
 [112] 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 aps I am, without knowing it at all. Is it be- 
 
 ause I am somewhat logical? Perhaps I am, 
 
 'Ithough people (I included) do not notice it. 
 
 |)ne thing I can say with much faith is that I 
 
 ake a great energy to gain an assertion, and a 
 
 j^jj^Tjireless persistence to be content with the invisible 
 
 .hings. You must fully understand the beauty of 
 
 ^^^^ ife, if you want to see the beauty of death; and 
 
 , ; ife will be more beautiful from the reason of 
 
 IS 01 III 
 
 :ontrast with death. And death, again from the 
 
 :ontrast with life, will be more tender in pathos, 
 
 nore subtle in rhythm. My song is always with 
 
 a. he falling leaves and the dying day. 
 
 .1 I am not ready to say such is the poetry of 
 
 I nodem Japanese poets ; it is so at least with some 
 
 )f them. And it is a most striking contrast with 
 
 :he material civilization of present Japan, which 
 
 .,vvas brought at once from the West; the West, 
 
 ^'™ strangely enough, sent us at the same time her 
 
 ^spiritual literature under the arbitrary name of 
 
 p Wmbolism. Now, that symbolism is not a new 
 
 [113] 
 
JAPANESE HOKKUS 
 
 thing at all ; for us, it is a continuation, of couil 
 with much modification, of our old thoughts ai 
 emotions. It is interesting to note that it car 
 here when we were much criticized as materi; 
 ists without capacity of understanding any spi: 
 tual beauty. As somebody says, the real mode 
 civilization of Japan is nothing but the old civi 
 zation which has changed its form ; and I say tb 
 the true new literature is, indeed, the old liter! 
 ture, baptized in a Western temple. We ha 
 led, for a thousand years, our insular lives; i 
 have been materially poor (many thanks for th 
 poverty) , and then we found it quite easy to coi 
 mune with our minds. As the reality was nevj 
 so splendid, we were obliged to seek satis facti 
 in dream; as we could not sing so well, ^ 
 learned the art how to sing in silence, the c 
 how to leave unsung. Poetry was never a cri 
 cism of life in Japan, as it was for one time 
 the West; but it was the words of adoration ai 
 love of nature and life. It is only the mode 
 
 [114] . 
 
 as 
 
 tec 
 
mode 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 ^^couri note to make the most of literature and life; it is, 
 ?litsaiBl dare say, from the hidden desire to value the 
 car I; no-literature and death more than the literature 
 4 and life themselves. 
 
 We must lose our insularity, although it needs 
 a strength of consciousness; what we want is 
 intensiveness, the art of distillation of our 
 aytlii thought, which only comes from the true pride 
 liter|i| and real economy of force. Universalism is of- 
 ten a weakness itself. We do not need, in our 
 ; I Japanese literature, any long epic and song be- 
 cause they are touched more or less by pretension. 
 Our song is a potted tree of a thousand years* 
 growth; our song is a Japanese tea-house — four 
 factiiil mats and a half in all — where we burn the rarest 
 \'f| incense which rises to the sky ; our song is an opal 
 with six colors that shine within. 
 
 vei 
 for til 
 
 nodei: 
 
 THE END 
 
 [H5] 
 
/ 
 
 
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