Or she at dusk, in sick distress,

Before the butsudan,

Must to ancestral tablets pray—not to her Moto-San!

X

Not unto him, her love, who sways

Her breast, as moon the tide,

[Pg 36]

Whose breath is incense—Ah, again

To see him softly glide

Before the grave god-idol's gaze

Of inward ecstasy,

To watch the great bell boom for him its mystic sutra-plea.

XI

But weeks grew into weariness,

And weariness to pain,

And pain to lonely wildness, which

Set fire unto her brain.

And, "I will see my love!" distress

Made fair O-Shichi cry,

"Tho for ten lives away from him I then must live and die."

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