I

Now let the generations pass-- Like sand through Heaven’s blue hour-glass.

In old Shantung, By the capital where poetry began, Near the only printing presses known to man, Young Confucius walks the shore On a sorrowful day. The town, all books, is tumbling down Through the blue bay. The book-worms writhe From rusty musty walls. They drown themselves like rabbits in the sea. Venomous foreigners harry mandarins With pitchfork, blunderbuss and snickersnee.

In the book-slums there is thunder; Gunpowder, that sad wonder, Intoxicates the knights and beggar-men. The old grotesques of war begin again: Rebels, devils, fairies, are set free.

So ... Confucius hears a carol and a hum: A picture sea-child whirs from off his fan In one quick breath of peach-bloom fantasy, Then, in an instant bows the reverent knee-- A full-grown sweetheart, chanting his renown. And then she darts into the Yellow Sea, Calling, calling: “Sage with holy brow, Say farewell to China now; Live like the swine, Leave off your scholar-gown! This city of books is falling, falling, The Empire of China is crumbling down.”