Part II: The Arrival

With rosy finger-tips the DawnDrew back the silver veils,Till lilac shimmered into lawnAbove the satin sails;And o'er the waters, white and wan,In tiny patterned state,We saw the streets of Old JapanShine, like a willow plate.

O, many a milk-white pigeon roamsThe purple cherry crops,The mottled miles of pearly domes,And blue pagoda tops,The river with its golden canesAnd dark piratic dhows,To where beyond the twisting vanesThe burning mountain glows.

A snow-peak in the silver skiesBeyond that magic world,We saw the great volcano riseWith incense o'er it curled,Whose tiny thread of rose and blueHas risen since time began,Before the first enchanter knewThe peak of Old Japan.

Nobody watched us quietly steerThe pinnace to the painted pier,Except one pig-tailed mandarin,Who sat upon a chest of teaPretending not to hear or see!...His hands were very long and thin,His face was very broad and white;And O, it was a fearful sightTo see him sit alone and grin!

His grin was very sleek and sly:Timidly we passed him by.He did not seem at all to care:So, thinking we were safely past,We ventured to look back at last.O, dreadful blank!--He was not there!He must have hid behind his chest:We did not stay to see the rest.

But, as in reckless haste we ran,We came upon the tall thin man,Who called to us and waved his fan,And offered us his palanquin:He said we must not go aloneTo seek the ruby wishing-stone,Because the white-faced mandarinWould dog our steps for many a mile,And sit upon each purple stileBefore we came to it, and smileAnd smile; his name was Creeping Sin.

He played with children's beating hearts,And stuck them full of poisoned dartsAnd long green thorns that stabbed and stung:He'd watch until we tried to speak,Then thrust inside his pasty cheekHis long, white, slimy tongue:And smile at everything we said;And sometimes pat us on the head,And say that we were very young:He was a cousin of the manWho said that there was no Japan.

And night and day this Creeping SinWould follow the path of the palanquin;Yet if we still were fain to touchThe ruby, we must have no fear,Whatever we might see or hear,And the tall thin man would take us there;He did not fear that Sly One much,Except perhaps on a moonless night,Nor even then if the stars were bright.

So, in the yellow palankeenWe swung along in state betweenTwinkling domes of gold and greenThrough the rich bazaar,Where the cross-legged merchants sat,Old and almond-eyed and fat,Each upon a gorgeous mat,Each in a cymar;Each in crimson samite breeches,Watching his barbaric riches.

Cherry blossom breathing sweetWhispered o'er the dim blue streetWhere with fierce uncertain feetTawny pirates walk:All in belts and baggy blouses,Out of dreadful opium houses,Out of dens where Death carouses,Horribly they stalk;Girt with ataghan and dagger,Right across the road they swagger.

And where the cherry orchards blow,We saw the maids of Miyako,Swaying softly to and froThrough the dimness of the dance:Like sweet thoughts that shine through dreamsThey glided, wreathing rosy gleams,With stately sounds of silken streams,And many a slim kohl-lidded glance;Then fluttered with tiny rose-bud feetTo a soft frou-frou and a rhythmic beatAs the music shimmered, pursuit, retreat,"Hands across, retire, advance!"And again it changed and the glimmering throngFaded into a distant song.