(The BROTHER here begins his first dance; like that which follows, it is a “shimai” or dance without instrumental music.)
On mornings of green spring
When at the valley’s shining gate
First melt the hawthorn-warbler’s frozen tears,
Or when by singing foam
Of snow-fed waters echoes the discourse
Of neighbourly frogs;—then speaks
The voice of Buddha’s heart.
Autumn, by eyes unseen,
Is heard in the wind’s anger;
And the clash of river-reeds, the clamorous descent
Of wild-geese searching
The home-field’s face,
Clouds shaped like leaves of rice,—all these
To watchful eyes foretell the evening storm.
He who has seen upon a mountain-side
Stock-still beneath the moon
The young deer stand in longing for his mate,
That man may read the writing, and forget
The finger on the page.
BROTHER.
Even so the fisher’s boats that ride
The harbour of the creek,
CHORUS.
Bring back the fish, but leave the net behind.
These things you have heard and seen;
In the wind of the hill-top, in the valley’s song,
In the film of night, in the mist of morning
Is it proclaimed that Thought alone
Was, Is and Shall be.
BROTHER.
Conceive this truth and wake!
As a cloud that hides the moon, so Matter veils
CHORUS.
The face of Thought.