Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PENRHYN'S PILGRIMAGE: CANTO FIRST: 5. MOUNT FUJI, by ARTHUR PETERSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PENRHYN'S PILGRIMAGE: CANTO FIRST: 5. MOUNT FUJI, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Canst sing, o muse, that snowy height
Last Line: He knows not beauty, peerless one!
Subject(s): Japan; Japanese


1

Canst sing, O Muse, that snowy height
Which, standing in the western skies,
Like the cloud-pillar to Israel's eyes,
Appears, each day, before my sight?

As o'er the Tokaido, stick in hand,
I journey toward Kioto's fanes,
It rises from Suruga's plains,
Leading me to the promised land.

Of thirteen provinces the light,
It shines, like Buddha, free from sin;
And, that Nirvana he may win,
The pilgrim climbs its summit bright.

O matchless mount, the centuries die
And, moldering, form the forgotten past;
But still thy wooded base stands fast,
Still thy white dome salutes the sky!

2

At night I see thy snowy stair
Ascending through the circling storm;
At morn behold thy graceful form
Spring, like a flower, into the air.

Fuji, what hour beheld thy birth?
What century saw thy bringing forth?
For legends tell, from south to north,
The travail of thy mother earth.

In Omi, in a single night,
Land sank, and Biwa's lake appeared;
While on Suruga's plain was reared,
From earth to heaven, thy sacred height.

'Mid such convulsions thou wast born
Who now, above me, sitt'st serene;
At morn I greet thy snowy sheen,
At night thou cheer'st me, travel worn.

3

In heaven thou dwell'st, immortal queen,
Below thee are the homes of men,
And mortals strive, with brush and pen,
To limn the vision they have seen.

Worked in my lady's silken zone,
Of golden thread, thy semblance stands;
And on his clay, with loving hands,
The potter paints thy peerless cone.

On palace wall, and temple screen,
On vase of bronze, and lacquered shrine,
Whate'er the work thy graceful line,
Dear to all craftsmen's hearts, is seen.

And the rapt poet, in despair
Of verse wherein thy charms to drape,
Beholds, in dreams, thy snowy shape
Hang, like a lily, in mid-air.

4

Oft from my vision thou art hid
Until I climb some summit free;
Then, as Balboa hailed the sea,
I hail thy lonely pyramid.

Can Chimborazo's peak of snow
With thee in majesty compare?
Can Alps or Himalayas bear
The crown of beauty from thy brow?

Listen, thou mountain deity!
Goddess, whose throne is in the air!
As Paris once Judged Venus fair,
Bestow I Venus' prize on thee.

Light of the East! Bride of the Sun!
Whose limbs the mists of morn now drape;
O he who ne'er beheld thy shape,
He knows not beauty, peerless one!





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