In old Japan, by creek and bay, The blue plum-blossoms blow, Where birds with sea-blue plumage gay Through sea-blue branches go: Dragons are coiling down below Like dragons on a fan; And pig-tailed sailors lurching slow Through streets of old Japan. There, in the dim blue death of day Where white tea roses grow, Petals and scents are strewn astray Till night be sweet enow; Then lovers wander whispering low As lovers only can, Where rosy paper lanterns glow Through streets of old Japan. From Wonderland to Yea-or-Nay The junks with painted prow Dream on the purple water-way Nor ever meet a foe; Though still, with stiff mustachio And crooked ataghan, Their pirates guard with pomp and show The ships of old Japan. How far beyond the dawning day The glories ebb and flow, Where still the wonder-children play, The witches mop and mow; How far, how far, no chart may show, The heart of mortal man, The light, the splendour, and the glow That once were old Japan! That land is very far away We lost it long ago! In old Japan the grass is grey, The trees are white with snow; The sea-blue bird became a crow, The lizards leapt and ran, No dragon mourned that overthrow, The dream of old Japan. In old Japan, at windows grey, Where scents of opium flow, Strange smiling faces, white as clay, Nod idly to and fro; There life and death may come and go, With blessing or with ban, And still no better gift bestow Than this, in old Japan. And now the wistful years delay To wonder why and how The blue fantastic twisted day, When Emperor Hwang or Chow Dreamed in the colour and the glow That light the heart of man, Could e’er such hours of flowers bestrow Through streets of old Japan. In old Japan they used to play A game forgotten now; They filled a nacre-coloured tray With perfumes in a row, Breathing of all the flowers that blow Where dark-blue rivers ran, Like those upon the plates, you know, Through fields of old Japan; Then with silver spatula The mandarins would go To test the scented dust and say, With many a hum and ho, What flower of all the flowers that grow For joy of maid or man, Conceived the scents that puzzled so The brains of old Japan. In old Japan, where poets pray With white uplifted brow, What mystic floating scents delay Below the purple bough, O’er plains no scythe of death may mow, Nor power of reason scan? What mandarin musicians know The flower of old Japan? There, in the dim blue death of day Where white tea-roses grow, Petals and scents are strewn astray Till night be sweet enow, Then lovers wander, whispering low As lovers only can, Where rosy paper lanterns glow Through streets of old Japan.