Ballade of a Toyokuni Colour-Print
To W. A.
WAS I a Samurai renowned,Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?A histrion angular and profound?A priest? a porter?—Child, althoughI have forgotten clean, I knowThat in the shade of Fujisan,What time the cherry-orchards blow,I loved you once in old Japan.
As here you loiter, flowing-gownedAnd hugely sashed, with pins a-rowYour quaint head as with flamelets crowned,Demure, inviting—even so,When merry maids in MiyakoTo feel the sweet o’ the year began,And green gardens to overflow,I loved you once in old Japan.
Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields roundTwo cranes are circling; sleepy and slow,A blue canal the lake’s blue boundBreaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo!Touched with the sundown’s spirit and glow,I see you turn, with flirted fan,Against the plum-tree’s bloomy snow …I loved you once in old Japan!
Envoy
Dear, ’twas a dozen lives ago;But that I was a lucky manThe Toyokuni here will show:I loved you—once—in old Japan.
BALLADE(DOUBLE REFRAIN)OF YOUTH AND AGE
I. M.Thomas Edward Brown(1829–1896)
SPRING at her height on a morn at prime,Sails that laugh from a flying squall,Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme—Youth is the sign of them, one and all.Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,An empty flagon, a folded page,A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball—These are a type of the world of Age.
Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,Swords that clatter in onsets tall,The words that ring and the fames that climb—Youth is the sign of them, one and all.Hymnals old in a dusty stall,A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,The scene of a faded festival—These are a type of the world of Age.
Hours that strut as the heirs of time,Deeds whose rumour’s a clarion-call,Songs where the singers their souls sublime—Youth is the sign of them, one and all.A staff that rests in a nook of wall,A reeling battle, a rusted gage,The chant of a nearing funeral—These are a type of the world of Age.
Envoy
Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl—Youth is the sign of them, one and all.A smouldering hearth and a silent stage—These are a type of the world of Age.
BALLADE(DOUBLE REFRAIN)OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS
To W. H.
WITH a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streamsThe full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,And the winds are one with the clouds and beams—Midsummer days! Midsummer days!The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze,While the West from a rapture of sunset rights,Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise—Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
The wood’s green heart is a nest of dreams,The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams—Midsummer days! Midsummer days!In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,All secret shadows and mystic lights,Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze—Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
There’s a music of bells from the trampling teams,Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams—Midsummer days! Midsummer days!A soul from the honeysuckle strays,And the nightingale as from prophet heightsSings to the Earth of her million Mays—Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
Envoy
And it’s O, for my dear and the charm that stays—Midsummer days! Midsummer days!It’s O, for my Love and the dark that plights—Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS
I. M.Edward John Henley(1861–1898)
WHERE are the passions they essayed,And where the tears they made to flow?Where the wild humours they portrayedFor laughing worlds to see and know?Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe?Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall?And Millamant and Romeo?Into the night go one and all.
Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?The plumes, the armours—friend and foe?The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,The mantles glittering to and fro?The pomp, the pride, the royal show?The cries of war and festival?The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?Into the night go one and all.
The curtain falls, the play is played:The Beggar packs beside the Beau;The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;The Thunder huddles with the Snow.Where are the revellers high and low?The clashing swords? The lover’s call?The dancers gleaming row on row?Into the night go one and all.
Envoy
Prince, in one common overthrowThe Hero tumbles with the Thrall:As dust that drives, as straws that blow,Into the night go one and all.
BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER
To C. M.
FOUNTAINS that frisk and sprinkleThe moss they overspill;Pools that the breezes crinkle;The wheel beside the mill,With its wet, weedy frill;Wind-shadows in the wheat;A water-cart in the street;The fringe of foam that girdsAn islet’s ferneries;A green sky’s minor thirds—To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the tinkle,Pellucid, silver-shrill;Peaches without a wrinkle;Cherries and snow at will,From china bowls that fillThe senses with a sweetIncuriousness of heat;A melon’s dripping sherds;Cream-clotted strawberries;Dusk dairies set with curds—To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;Wet stone-crop on the sill;The look of leaves a-twinkleWith windlets clear and still;The feel of a forest rillThat wimples fresh and fleetAbout one’s naked feet;The muzzles of drinking herds;Lush flags and bulrushes;The chirp of rain-bound birds—To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards,Dawn dews and starlit seas,White marbles, whiter words—To live, I think of these!