ground to its own existence, has not stained with drops of romantic blood these pale flowerets. No Japanese poet would conceive such a stanza as that in "Maud" —
"There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate;
The larkspur listens 'I hear,' 'I hear';
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'"
He knows that the Great Mother has other cares more absorbing than the love-sick suspense of a whining suitor, that the myriad marriages of bird and beast and blossom are perhaps as much or as little to her as the predilections of Maud. He would enjoy Professor Huxley's rap at the singers who "mistake their sensual caterwauling for the music of the spheres," and his pedestrian fancy would shudder at the unchartered imagination of Tennyson.
Buddhist doctrines have so profoundly influenced thought and feeling, that thousands of little songs rise daily like prayers of intercession or gratitude to the Lord Buddha. But these would demand a volume of explanation, which I am not competent to write. I select one playful and one serious poem, having reference to religious ideas. The first might be called
Extravagance.
Joy drew the rickshaw,
Heaven takes vengeance,
Empty the larder,
Rickshaw of fire.
This may be expanded into: "We drove about in a rickshaw, enjoying ourselves; we spent all our money; we are punished by Heaven, for we suffer remorse, like the sinners, who are pulled in fiery rickshaws by
