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 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,

Bukôzan, now, one hardly thinks