The stork's road through the azure air.
Oh, if I had his painted pair
Of wings, I'd fly with them, and lend
Those strong plumes to my gentle friend
That she might come, without one soil
Of dust on her dear feet, or toil
Of weary walking, up this steep
To gaze on the Pacific deep,
Fuji's vast slope—a mountain-world—
With, half-way down, the soft clouds curled
Around her waist, an obi fair,
Scarlet and gold, like what you wear.
The rivers, running far below,
Like white threads on a green cloth show;
The towns are little purple spots,
The villages faint grayish dots;
Over the tallest mountains round
We gaze, from Fuji's monstrous mound,
And see far past them, just as you
Spy Mita clear from Azabu.
O-Yama to a mole-hill shrinks,
