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The sea of Tsu-shima kisses the foot

Of Korean hills at Fusan,

The mists have covered the thatched huts ashore

And dark clouds enveloped the sky.

The sea looks pitch-black from its cloudy tent,

The ship-cleft waters bubble blue in white,

Liquid silver glimmers at spots not far

Whereon the sun can dart its beams.

Yonder, Tsu-shima, the "isle of pines" evergreen,

Here, the sea under rainy skies,—

Both have witnessed the marvellous battle

By which Japan has saved the East.

To crush Nippon came the Russian fleet,

Its grave it found through Togo's skill;

Asia's Salamis, then, is this,

And Port Arthur, the Marathon, there.