Page:Anthology of Japanese Literature.pdf/300

Is as the horse of the aged man of the land of Sai;^[1]
And as a white colt flashes
Past a gap in the hedge, even so our days pass.^[2]
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.
Gardener: “Wake, wake,” he cries—
Chorus: 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!
Gardener: 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.