Page:Anthology of Japanese Literature.pdf/300

296 :::Is as the horse of the aged man of the land of Sai;
 * And as a white colt flashes
 * Past a gap in the hedge, even so our days pass.
 * And though the time be come,
 * Yet can none know the road that he at last must tread,
 * Goal of his dewdrop-life.
 * All this I knew; yet knowing,
 * Was blind with folly.

“Wake, wake,” he cries— The watchman of the hours—
 * “Wake from the sleep of dawn!”
 * And batters on the drum.
 * For if its sound be heard, soon shall he see
 * Her face, the damask of her dress…
 * Aye, damask! He does not know
 * That on a damask drum he beats.
 * Beats with all the strength of his hands, his aged hands,
 * But hears no sound.
 * “Am I grown deaf?” he cries, and listens, listens:
 * Rain on the windows, lapping of waves on the pool—
 * Both these he hears, and silent only
 * The drum, strange damask drum.
 * Oh, will it never sound?
 * I thought to beat the sorrow from my heart,
 * Wake music in a damask drum; an echo of love
 * From the voiceless fabric of pride!

Longed for as the moon that hides
 * In the obstinate clouds of a rainy night
 * Is the sound of the watchman’s drum,
 * To roll the darkness from my heart.