every day; I recall here to my mind the following seventeen-syllable hokku poem:
“One blossom of the plum—
Yes, as much as that one blossom, every day,
Have we of Spring’s warmth.”
It might be from the conditions of my impaired health of late that such a little peom as the above makes a strong impression on my mind; indeed, I never felt before as this year, the kindness of the sunlight and the joy of spring. I declare myself to be an adherent of this hokku poem in whose gem-small form of utterance our Japanese poets were able to express their understanding of Nature, better than that, to sing or chant their longing or wonder or adoration towards Mother Nature; to call the hokku poem suggestive is almost wrong, although it has become a recent fashion for the Wester critics to interpret, not only this hokku but all Japanese poetry (even my work included) by that one word, because the hokku poem itself is distictly clear-cut like a diamond or star, never mystified by any cloud or mist like Truth or Beauty of Keats’ understanding. It is all very well if you
