[TO THE FALLEN LEAVES]
I hear the moaning rains beat on your rest
In the long nights of Winter and his wind—
And Death, the woeful, guilty of your fall,
Crying that he has sinned.
[MAYA]
(Hiroshima, Japan, 1905)
Pale sampans up the river glide
With set sails vanishing and slow;
In the blue west the mountains hide
As visions that too soon will go.
Across the rice-lands flooded deep
The peasant peacefully wades on—
As in unfurrowed vales of sleep,
A phantom out of voidness drawn.