Down to this leaf of the momiji-tree
Which knows and courtesys to me:
For I and the maple-leaf are one
As we hear, as we hear
The tender unnoticed tone
Of your Earth's voice, ceaseless and clear:
And we move to the swing
Of your star, in the ring
She weaves round the flying Sun;
Weaves so—so—so:—
Which the waves understand
And the wind and the sand:
But you cannot ever know!"
'Twere good you should have watched O Tsuru San
Deftly pace this, with little lifted feet
Shod in the white silk tabi: and soft lips
Making the melodies to guide her feet,
The music sitting silent; or, at most,
Dropping a high note in now and again.
