The violet wells have ceased to flow;

And O, how faint and wan

The dawn on Fusiyama's snow,

The peak of old Japan.

Half smilingly, our hearts delay,

Half mournfully forego

The blue fantastic twisted day

When faithful Konojo,

For small white Lily Hasu-ko

Knelt in the Butsudan,

And her tomb opened to bestrow

Lilies thro' old Japan.

There was a game they used to play

I' the San-ju-san-jen Dō,

They filled a little lacquer tray

With powders in a row,

Dry dust of flowers from Tashiro

To Mount Daimugenzan,

Dry little heaps of dust, but O

They breathed of old Japan.

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