I felt so sorry.
I was yearning after my beloved home.
This is the great Chrysanthemum season at home. I missed the show at Dangozaka.
How gracefully the time used to pass in Dai Nippon, while I sat looking at the flowers on a tokonoma.
Every place is a strange gray waste to me without the intimate faces of flowers.
Flowers have no price in Japan, just as a poet is nothing, for everybody there is poet. But they have a big value in this city—although I am not positive that an American poet creates wealth.
I purchased a select bouquet of violets.
I passed by several young gentlemen. Were their eyes set on my flowers or my hands?
I don’t wear gloves. I don’t wish my hands to be touched harshly by them. Truly I am vain of showing my small hands.
I love the violet, because it was the favorite of dear John—Keats, of course.