I

If I were in Japan today, In little Japan today, I'd watch the sampan-rowers ride On Yokohama bay. I'd watch the little flower-folk Pass on the Bund, where play Of "foreign" music fills their ears With wonder new alway.

Or in a kuruma I'd step And "Noge-yama!" cry, And bare brown feet should wheel me fast Where Noge-yama, high Above the city and sea's vast Uprises, with the sigh Of pines about its festal fanes Built free to sun and sky.

And there till dusk I'd sit and think Of Shaka Muni, lord Of Buddhas; or of Fudo's fire And rope and lifted sword. And, ere I left, a surging shade Of clouds, a distant horde, Should break and Fugi's cone stand clear-- With sutras overscored.

Sutras of ice and rock and snow, Written by hands of heat And thaw upon it, till 'twould seem Meant for the final seat Of the lord Buddha and his bliss-- If ever he repeat This life where millions still are bound Within Illusion's cheat.