Off in the field the peasant toils

And along the canal the low tows slip,

Fruit of the red persimmon piled upon them.

Off in the field the peasant toils—

With lip and brow the dull years strip

Bare of the dreams of life, whose grip

Has grimly drawn them.

[Pg 70]

High on the hill the yamên rests

And the temple beside it sleeps in sun,

Far in the distance faints the city dreary.

High on the hill the yamên rests,

And dun dead shadows o'er it run:

This is the land where Time begun

And now grows weary.

[Pg 71]

[Pg 71]

THE SEA-ARMIES

The wild sea-armies led by the wind

Are following in our wake,

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