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CREATION-DAWN 
 
 (A VISION DRAMA) 
 
 t 
 
 EVENING TALKS 
 
 AND 
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 By 
 
 TakCvShi Kan no 
 
 PUBLISHED 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 THE HIGHTS. FRUITVALE, CAL, 
 
Copyright 1913 
 
 By 
 
 Takeshi Kanno 
 
 (All rights reserved) 
 
This, my soul-incense, I perfume 
 before the altar of divine ego. 
 
 A A i^p■i ru 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/creation-dawnaviOOkannrich 
 
Portrait-bust of Takeshi Kanno bv Gertrude Bovle Kanno. 
 
Thou my fignre, — dimmed shadowy ruined castle! 
 
 Within thy ghostly vault incalculable echo of death 
 
 Howling as monstrous sea; 
 
 Without, the castle shadows float in dragonish mists: 
 
 Eternal tempest of longing ocean roaring. 
 
 But what a sweet, wild sight! Ivook there, there! 
 
 Nameless, deathless, beauteous flower clinging 
 
 To wounded breast of thy soul-ruined castle. 
 
 Where floating the bravest battle-shadow 
 
 Of thy past life now? 
 
 Kven though thy strong castle-hold funerals 
 
 Into the unknown silent domain by the eternal hand of time - 
 
 Yet, ah, here! here! thou, my nameless flower. 
 
 Remain like everlasting reluctant dream! 
 
 Ah, my figure, — shadowy castle, melts into thee. 
 
 Thou everlasting memorial flower! 
 
*'Born from my mother's heart, in the midst of 
 
 Fragrant bloom of native nest, 
 Where the shadow of pine danced in the twilight of 
 
 Ruined castle encircled by the wild -flower valley; 
 Born to this world like rivulet that runs from deep 
 
 Bosom of mother valley, 
 Where the spring love-bream melts the divine white 
 Snow from the breast of father Fujiyama." 
 
 m m m m m m 
 
 Thus he came, this singer of the Orient, and 
 with a nature that could not bind itself to any one 
 phase of truth or racial conception, strongly individ- 
 ual, at the same time universal in spirit, an advocate 
 of harmonism, of "everything different therefore one, 
 -conscious independence, unconscious unity.*' 
 
 This song-philosopher from earliest childhood 
 imbibed the rare nectar of the Chinese and Japanese 
 classics, beginning at the age of five to chant the clas- 
 sics to his grandparent, a man of literary worth, at 
 first for sembi (rice cake), later for the delight in the 
 classics themselves. Until his thirteenth year his 
 training was purely oriental, mainly Spartan or Bushi- 
 do (the way of the knight) -- having sprung from the 
 
Samurai (the knighthood of Japan). From then on 
 his education became equally western and eastern. 
 
 During his college life he spent much time in 
 the study of literature and philosophy, specializing in 
 his theological course on the higher criticisms of 
 Christianity; striving to explain Christian philosophy 
 by modern science and ethics; ever drawing compar- 
 isons, discovering similarities and differences in the 
 teachings of Buddha, Jesus, Confucius, Brahma, and 
 others; delighting in the symbolism and strength of 
 Hebrew literature; revelling in the mythology of the 
 Greeks, drinking deep of its sparkling beauty, — as 
 he had quaffed in early youth the saki of his race's 
 gods. 
 
 Leaving his college life at Kyoto, he jour- 
 neyed forth into the far distant parts of his country, - 
 from village to hamlet strolling by running brook; 
 wandering like free wind through time-ruined castle 
 or along sylvan shore; teaching, lecturing anon, sing- 
 ing his song alway, his scroll of sonnets, *'Travell 
 ing Gown," in his native tongue, lengthening with 
 each step of his journey. 
 
 Thus passed his youth away. Without ex- 
 pecting or planning, one fair day he set sail for a 
 new world. After wandering along the western coast 
 of America he found a spot in harmony with the 
 
meditative spirit so strong within him, - up on the 
 heights overlooking San Francisco Bay , the wild yet 
 peaceful abode of the Bard of the Sierras. 
 
 Here he has remained in the silence of dream, 
 sunk deep in the ocean-thought of the universe; anon 
 awaking to whisper his fancies, his sea-murmurings, 
 to the soft breezes, to voice his soul-dreams to my ear. 
 Even the Bard of the mountains caught not a glimpse 
 of his vision nor heard a strain from his song; meet- 
 ing each day as simple friends, remarking on the 
 fairness of a morn or the beauty-splendor of a sun 
 set, each muffled in the cloak of his fancy, each led 
 by the hand of his muse, apart would wander. 
 
 In our cabin among the tree-tops oft, **as the 
 shadows of night melt into purple dawn, the melting 
 time of the real and the dream, of sleep and awaken- 
 ing, the conscious, unconscious state of the mind", 
 I arouse myself and sieze and preserve the utterance 
 of spirit, -- this voice from the unknown domain of 
 thought. As I take these utterances, word for word, 
 I see nothing distinctly, yet at a distance I catch 
 a glimpse of a great being moving, - seen, unseen, 
 like the oriental picture of the sacred dragon, half 
 veiled in cloud, seen but to vanish in mist. 
 
 Well may his nature be likened to the crystal 
 dragon; his mind, his spirit, resembling the flight of 
 
that mystic being, -- plunging deep in the great sea of 
 philosophy, seeking some hidden jewel in its gloom- 
 Cavern; rising to hover like cloud of doubt over the 
 waters of feeling; soaring to lofty mountain-peak of 
 religion, wrapped in the mists of inspiration; on the 
 wings of the wind drifting, floating, sailing o'er purple 
 seas of dav/n, over flowery plains of poetry and love 
 "whirling with the wild ecstas}^ of passion sounds, bend- 
 ing dreaming ear to the silent song of gentle midnight 
 storm of endless longing. "-""A dragon breathing life 
 and death. - Breathing the breath of poetry and with 
 "ear bending to the voice of naked creation," this 
 minstrel sounds for us unknown strains, whirling us 
 into the very center of feeling, where we behold the 
 mists of creation rising about us, and "hear the deep 
 drone of mingling waves, — the great sounds of eternal 
 tides!" 
 
 "I plunge into the vast bigness of chaos. 
 Sublime music guides my soul, 
 Feeling blending into dream world, — 
 My mind flows into soul of tnii verse, 
 So naturally comes my song. ' ' 
 
 Gertrude Boyle Kanno 
 
 Dream His^lits 
 
CREATION-DAWN 
 
 (Fragments) 
 
 PART THIRD 
 Scene I 
 
 (Near the sea, by the castle. Sagano and Saarashi 
 transported into sublimest vision of Creation; their 
 souls enraptured with solemn music of love-ocean) 
 
 Voice from within 
 
 ^'Let there be light!" 
 
 God knocked at mystic portal 
 
 Of maiden's soul: 
 
 Behold! love-light shines forth 
 
 From her heart of dawning-f lower! 
 Sagano 
 
 Awake, my soul! 
 
 Open, gate of mystery! 
 
 Great minstrel, 
 
 Touching the sacred harp 
 
 Quivering from God to man. 
 
 Listen! mellowed sorrow sounding 
 
 Sagano, an unknown poet. Saarashi, the beloved of Sagano. 
 
From twilight forest of resurrection-dawn. 
 Saarashi 
 
 On the shore of life 
 
 Waves of ecstasy dashing! 
 Sagano 
 
 Poised as Venus in yearning: 
 Saarashi 
 
 Crowning, foaming flower of rapture, 
 
 Breathe in, breath out, 
 
 Waves of life pulsing. 
 Sagano 
 
 Now invisible hand of mighty Creator 
 
 Forging human soul 
 
 On the anvil of passion; 
 
 Millions of unformed souls 
 
 Burning in fire of love-ocean. 
 
 Breathing white-flamed waves 
 
 Of melting love: 
 
 Thus God shapes his mighty 
 
 Image of Male and Female: 
 This is the poetry of poetries, 
 Greatest poet, God! 
 Saarashi 
 
 'Twas the miorn. 
 
 Even dawning bud of pure maiden's soul 
 
 Would smile: 
 
My feeling awakened to dream from real; 
 
 Phantom-soft touch 
 
 As spring wind, dimpling 
 
 Upon breast of calm sea,- 
 
 A touch, such a touch, love! 
 
 Thou visible hand of unseen Creator — 
 
 Thick morning mist descending with real dawn- 
 both figures seen, unseen.- Indistinct chanting 
 of Saarashi mingUng with Voice of Ocean. 
 Anon in the twiHght shadows of morn white 
 petals showering with longing sea- wind. 
 
 Sagano 
 
 From bottomless sorrow 
 
 Of unknown love-sea, 
 
 Slowly mourns her voice, 
 
 Like distant storm, heard, unheard, 
 
 Mingling with love-strings 
 
 In vibration of naked souls; 
 
 Storming upon wild yearning 
 
 In melting sweetness of love-rain; 
 
 Now howling as sea- wind 
 
 Dancing with dragonish pine 
 
 In mists of wild ecstasy; 
 
 Now cradling my soul 
 
 In her young moon-craft; 
 
 Now crushing her naked beauty 
 
 Upon sounding love-ocean 
 
Where my dream swims, 
 While silver star scattering 
 Her love-beams into the shadow of dawn! 
 My perfumed heart 
 Tangles with curtain of dream, 
 While my smouldering soul 
 Mingles with shadow of webbing life! 
 Ah, sweet! 
 
 'Twas moment vision of her souled voice 
 Which buried in silent gi^aye of my heart, 
 In mist of stormy Creation. 
 Saarashi 
 
 Sweet, cruel love, 
 
 0, draw my breath! 
 
 In a moment - Ah, such moment! — 
 
 Devours whole life! 
 
 In such moment 
 
 Miniatures eternity! 
 
 Devours whole soul 
 
 Into one breath! 
 
 Love! in thy presence 
 
 x\ll being melts into one! 
 
 Speak not of such moment- 
 
 Hohest of the holy, 
 
 Atmosphere of life, 
 
 This is the Breath of God 
 
In Creation Dawn! — 
 Sagano 
 
 In moment I feel 
 
 Dragon tangle my body! 
 Ah, pain! 
 
 Yet after a moment I feel 
 
 Angel cradling my feeling 
 In her soft love-cradle ! — 
 Saarashi 
 
 My hungry soul searching, 
 
 Stretches trembling finger; 
 
 I feel something touching, 
 
 Soft as rain of petals showerings. 
 Sagano 
 
 On the current of love tide 
 
 In craft of life. 
 
 Oar of feeling rowing, 
 
 Foams of ecstasy splashing. 
 Love- waves of male and female mingling. 
 Sagano and Saarashi 
 
 Up and down drifting — 
 Sagano 
 
 To unknown longing ocean. 
 
 Where souls' love created 
 
 In first day of dawning Creation — 
 
 love-dream! 
 
lO 
 
 In phantom craft! 
 
 Where art thou saihng? 
 
 From where, to where? 
 Ah, nowhere, yet everywhere. 
 Saarashi 
 
 My f eehng melting somewhere, 
 
 Like evening twiUght 
 Melts into mystic shadow of night. 
 Sagano 
 
 Here perfume of dreams flowering 
 
 Betwixt thee and me! 
 
 What unconscious sweet 
 
 From sky of yearning clouds 
 
 Of wild desire — 
 
 As spring shower slowly sprinkling 
 
 Her electric feeling 
 
 Upon harp of my thirsty soul! — 
 
 Before action - ah, such a moment! 
 
 What picture in thy mind floating? 
 
 Where is your will? 
 
 Now all being veiled before you, 
 Slowly, eagerly yearning. 
 Saarashi 
 
 Where? ah, what? 
 
 Feeling raining as petals shower. 
 
 Heart whirling with wind. 
 
11 
 
 Souls breathing spirit of God 
 
 (Moon sinking in western sea; night blackening) 
 
 Sagano 
 
 Tempestuous wind of desire (sudden storm 
 
 arises, scattering flowers raining) 
 
 Violating with homeless clouds of doubt, 
 
 Storming on boundless ocean 
 
 of Love-Creation, 
 
 Thundering far from heaven 
 
 To bottomless deep, distant yet near, 
 
 Sea or mist dragon waving. 
 
 Scarlet fire from mouth forking, (lightning) 
 
 Billowing tides of life mingling. 
 
 Phantom locks of uncreated spirits 
 
 Devouring white foams 
 
 Of passion breakers (voice of waves heard) 
 
 Now spirit of eternal Creation 
 
 Moving upon love-sea. 
 
 Howling toward heaven like lions, 
 
 Mountaining hungry surges, on and on — 
 Saarashi 
 
 Ah, sweet! 
 
 On waving ecstasy of feeling-sea. 
 
 Now, ah, floating! 
 Sagano 
 
 Ah, drifting! 
 
IS 
 
 Feeling in most, oh, wait, — 
 Lo! tide of life returns 
 Unto the Beginning, where my soul slept! 
 Saarashi 
 
 Love- wings of stormy wind ceasing, 
 Nothing remains in sky of mind, 
 Fainting mists showering away, 
 
 But morning star dimly weeping — 
 Sagano 
 
 While stormed petals hunting 
 Track of dream! 
 Saarashi 
 
 Dawning love awakening. 
 Shining forth her love-light. 
 Sagano 
 
 Look, dear, west! 
 Haze or mist; 
 
 Ah, morning rainbow, arcade of 
 God's temple of Genesis Night 
 Appears in sky of love-dawning — 
 List to song from our inmost soul: 
 
 '^Let there be light/' 
 Voice through chaos 
 Awakes the harp of her dreaming soul; 
 
 Behold, m.aiden draws 
 Her cloud-curtain of Creation-Dawn. 
 
la 
 
 PART THIRD 
 Scene II 
 
 Virgin forest of meditation -Sagano's mind wandering 
 in maiden-chaos, still dreaming sublimest vision of 
 creation which he chants in dedication to his beloved 
 Saarashi whose spirit hovers around him. 
 
 (Voice from within before curtain-rise) 
 ^^Let there beHght/' 
 Voice through chaos 
 Awaked the harp of her dreaming soul! 
 Behold, the maiden 
 
 Draws her cloud-veil of Creation-dawn! 
 Sagano 
 
 Shapeless cloudy forms vaporing 
 
 From bottomless chaos 
 
 Of the maiden's heart! 
 
 A knock at her secret chamber, 
 
 Then opens portal of dream, 
 
 Draws the veil of holy shrine 
 
 Of the sacred grail. 
 
 Lips taste the wine, — a touch of life! 
 
 Aagin I see shapless form in magic chaos; 
 
 I heard two voices, ''Touch not, touch not!'' 
 
14 
 
 Then I replied ''It means touch?'' 
 
 I entered at the gate of Life; 
 
 What a perfect blossoming land here! 
 
 I feel something moving, — 
 
 'Twas the wind of feeling 
 
 Shaking, touching the harp of my soul! 
 
 What a thrilling, vibrating 
 
 From her shore to my shore! 
 
 White living strings from heaven (father) 
 
 To earth (mother) stretched ;- 
 
 Is that rain of love? 
 I heard again little voice, 
 ''Touch not, touch not!'' 
 I knocked at the gate of Death and entered 
 I saw a j»etal fall on a grave unkown; 
 Thrice I heard the same voices, 
 "Touch not, touch not!" 
 I saw two figures shadowing there: 
 I approach and I gazed and gaze, — 
 Ah, 'twas the shadow of my parents! 
 Here comes Buddha gazing at the petal 
 On the grave. 
 
 Silently he smiled and smiled! 
 Here comes Christ gazing at petal 
 On the grave, — wept and wept! 
 Here life blossoming. 
 
16 
 
 Souls perfuming on the holy shrine 
 In the presence of the Creator; 
 God's burning pen writing 
 On the white pages of human soul! 
 I see the countless books of poems 
 Burning here in the red-blood-fire 
 Of Creation Dawn! 
 Here writing, writing, invisible hand 
 Of Creator, 
 
 Characterless poem of creation, 
 With His pen of eternal-love! 
 Here eternity blending into a minute; 
 What feeling, burning pen. 
 Swift as thunder-lightning! 
 What souls streamed from His living pen! 
 Like the exquisite melody blending 
 From the silence of the kisses. 
 Here eternity bows his locks- 
 Here all kings of worlds 
 Bow their proud heads — 
 All here! All from here! All here grow: 
 All here die! Life and death at last one,- 
 A drop of His pen! 
 
 In chaos shapeless form f loating- 
 Now parting, yet blending. 
 Floating, sailing! 
 
lr» 
 
 Time? Beyond eternity, - 
 
 Where? Not kowing,- 
 
 How? Selfless feeling, ~ 
 
 Ah, ending where? love! 
 
 In mingling twilights and dancing shadows 
 
 Ah, mingling! Oh, floating! 
 
 What? Ah, what? 
 
 Here, ah, here! 
 
 Beyond miracle — 
 
 Thus, ah, thus! 
 
 Life breathing there, 
 
 Oh, here souls perfuming on holy shrine 
 
 Of Creator. 
 
 On the misty shore of love-sea 
 In a woman's soul, flower of life smiling. 
 White as passion breaker; 
 While I gaze, tide of life swelling swelling. 
 From bottomless love-ocean, 
 Gathered in my eyes a drop of tears, 
 Painful sweet, and falls upon 
 The blooming flower. 
 
 Oh look, look! falling, falling. 
 Petals falling, dancing with wild sea- wind! 
 Look, look! petals kissing, kissing 
 With whitened passion-breakers! 
 Look, look! floating floating 
 
Among the waves of the fate! 
 Oh, where is the home of Loving? 
 Even a shadow of petal I lost from my side, 
 Where is the dream of petal now? 
 
 Two souls breathing warm breath 
 
 Of love creation, 
 Shadow of souls burning in eternal fire 
 Of longing. 
 
 Look! shape of two souls floating, 
 Swimming in an ocean 
 Of unutterable ecstasy, — 
 Swimming on the waves of rapture, 
 In the bottomless love-sea. 
 Oh, 'twas the fire of creation! 
 Myriad billows raising their whitened locks, 
 Howling, howling, crying! 
 Behold, the center of vapor. 
 The whitened flame shapes 
 The perfect form of eternal new ! 
 
 What big autumnal stillness spreads 
 
 Before my eyes. 
 When my divine ego awakes, — 
 ''Everything here, everything here, 
 All here''-- 
 
 In silence shapelessly she slept, 
 Incense smoke rising, 
 
Wind forgot to awake silence ; 
 
 Here eternity blossoming, speaking, 
 
 Where death resurrecting up from sky. 
 
 Petal falls on her lips of shapeless dream, - 
 
 She awakes as deserted petal 
 
 Of resurrection! 
 
 What fullness, thou Conception! 
 
 What smooth drifting on thy calm oily sea, 
 
 What a deep drone of mingling waves 
 
 I hear; 
 
 Yes, 'twas the voice of God moving upon 
 
 The water of feeling! 
 
 What soft rowing in thy sacred craft. 
 
 Floating on love-ocean. 
 
 Where the holy gail is shrined. 
 
 Say not, she is a transform of God, 
 
 Ah, this! 
 
 Thus I kiss the warm lips of the Creator! 
 A touch! what sweet touch is this? 
 Soft as breath of budding heart. 
 What the naked shadows of Creation? 
 Ah, ask me not where is garment of day! 
 I saw her figure floating on my breast 
 Of longing ocean, 
 As wave of incense-smoke tangles me soft. 
 
 Sun kissing curtain of dawn, 
 
19 
 
 Where souls dancing, 
 
 Mingling in love-twilght 
 
 Tasting melting sweetness, ™ 
 Love- tide ebbing, flowing, toward portal 
 Of life yearning. 
 
 In sky of hearts clouds of desire dancing, 
 Round sun light touching. 
 Souls embracing, ecstasy raining: 
 
 Here the hearts blossoming. 
 There life flowering. 
 Feeling, vibrating like exquisite music. 
 Souls breathing as sun kisses the curtain 
 Of dawn, 
 
 Here Creation giving breath of life: 
 Sudden a mass of cloud of whitened desire 
 Takes the rain of violent storm, 
 Mounting on the naked love-waves. 
 While the living waters flow 
 From the Father River to the Mother Sea. 
 Look! her figure in naked garment; 
 Thou whitened love flame! 
 ghost! thou floating in silken mists, - 
 
 Seen, unseen. 
 In sky of my longing eyes. 
 Look! she combing her hair. 
 Reflecting her naked beauty on mirror. 
 
I see there vapor of souls, - 
 
 There! there! 
 I breathe fragrance of heart, 
 
 Here! here! 
 Thou Hving love-grave, - 
 Nay, native home of heaven. 
 
 Thou Eden! 
 There, there in midst love nest 
 Where wings of souls fledged. 
 Under the rock evrlasting stream flowing. 
 
 Floating in silken mists, thou and I- 
 Her naked beauty f loatng 
 In silken mists, seen, unseen. 
 We float in silken love-mists. 
 Our flaming forms flying as wings of birds ; 
 Inward we fly, upward we soar.~ 
 Hark! voice of night that sunk 
 Into bottomless silence. 
 Listen deeper and deeper. 
 Silent voice of night. 
 Love-sun mirroring naked beauty 
 Upon curtain of night. 
 Look! child of Dawn bom! 
 
 Hope dawing, 
 
 Love-sun awaking. 
 
 Curtain of night drawing. 
 
21 
 
 When God stretched white love-strings 
 
 Between thee and me, 
 
 Mystic harp of Creator began to quiver. 
 
 What smooth, touching hand 
 
 Of visible Creator 
 
 Ministrels like dream of maiden awaking! 
 
 What a soft flowing, like sound 
 
 Of moonbeams. 
 
 Dancing down with stream. - 
 Dragon breathing life and death! 
 Raining white blossoming rain,- 
 
 It was night, indeed, - such black night! 
 I touched the beauty of life, 
 I drunk my soul from thy burning mouth, 
 And wrote unformed poetry 
 On thy misty, tiding breast, - 
 Breaking Father Sea soul against cave 
 Of Mother Earth! 
 
 Devouring white, uncreated forms! 
 Devouring willful waves of desire 
 Against dark cave of Mother Earth! 
 
 Sound of breaking souls! 
 My heart vibrating with invisible strings 
 
 Of music playing in thy breast. 
 And my soul touching with dying sounds 
 
 That return to infant dream.-- 
 
az 
 
 Bottomless sweetness of love-rain 
 
 Showering between thee and me; 
 
 Graceful weeping willow in the mist 
 
 Seen, unseen, 
 
 Feeling swings her shadow 
 
 As morning breeze: 
 
 Two whitened souls perfuming incense 
 
 Of beauty before holy shrine of Creator! 
 
 Beauteous formed poem dropping 
 
 From living pen upon the baby page 
 
 Of whitened soul,- 
 
 Ah, now, why, 'twas a living dream 
 
 In Creation Dawn! 
 
 Voice from love-tide 
 
 Endless mystery! 
 
 Great sounds of eternal tides! 
 
 God is boundless, bottomless sea 
 
 Of Creation! 
 
 My soul slowly laving in eternal love tide 
 
 Of bottomless mystery. 
 
 And my ear bending to the voice 
 
 Of naked Creation. - 
 
 God's love instrument, thou my love! 
 
 I touched to thy whitened strings- 
 Storming souls trembling, 
 Drunkened hearts quivering. 
 
23 
 
 Waves of sound in intoxicated beauty 
 
 Flying. 
 
 I raise curtain of silence and enter: 
 
 Nothing there I see in dark twilight 
 
 But one beauteous God's love flame 
 
 Smiling in silence, 
 
 Spinning endless thread 
 
 Of measureless rapture. 
 
 While I gazing my garment of day 
 
 Without toil all torn, 
 
 While webs of life tangle me in love nest, 
 
 Spinning, tangling, springing, returning, 
 
 Streaming, whirling, whirling 
 
 Into center of chaos ! 
 Thus I sung voiceless song of Creation- 
 
 What is it? what is it! 
 
 Between thee and me? 
 Something sweeter than flying music, 
 Lovelier than flower. 
 
 What is it! What is it! 
 Between thee and me? 
 Something dreamier than 
 * The veiled spring moon. 
 Brighter than the morning star. 
 
 What i s it! what is it! 
 
 Between thee and me? 
 
Yea, 'tis the souFs native garden where 
 God planted the tree of love,- 
 Ah, thus I return to thee 
 Thou great bosom of mother Earth, 
 
 Olove! 
 Through unlocked portal of woman's 
 Bottomless, beaming love-ocean. 
 What! ah, what! 
 Between thee and me? 
 Ah, love mingling in blossoming air, 
 
 Endless weaver of love-mystery! 
 
 Perfuming dancer in incense longing! 
 
 Phantom searcher of mingling hearts! 
 
 Shapeless catcher of voice of soul! 
 Yea, yet listen more: 
 
 Sun is thy heart. 
 
 Moon is thy soul, 
 
 Awake as the naked beauty 
 
 Of Mother Earth at day. 
 
 Asleep under the starry garment 
 
 Of mystic night. 
 
 Dreaming on the breast of God, 
 
 Kissing the lips of melting sweetness 
 
 Of Creator, - 
 Draw thy cloudy veil of purple Dawn 
 And receive the love-beam 
 
8K 
 
 Into thy budding craft, 
 Floating in perfuming air; 
 
 Thou visible Creator, (Saarashi appears) 
 my love! 
 
 I sup thy soul from thy burning mouth! 
 Thus: we create a new world 
 Between thee and me. 
 Twas the voice of God,- 
 
 ^^Let there be light!'' 
 
PART FOURTH 
 Scene I 
 
 Grey summer moon-night- Sagano sleeping by the 
 path to the grave of his friend-philosopher, - gong 
 strikes one -- he awakes. 
 
 What a dream I dreamed! 
 My soul still wandering twixt the unknown 
 Boundaries of dream and real, 
 Like living ghost. 
 
 Where is she? 
 I feel her fragrance still hovering 
 Around me like warbling voice of night. 
 Did I not pass the seven colored 
 Mystic portal of heaven, 
 Baptised with celestial shower of love ! 
 Did I not sup my soul 
 From her burning mouth! 
 Yet why anxious clouds floating 
 In the sky of my soul? 
 Why am I restless as turbulent waves? 
 Come, Spirit, thou charmest me once 
 And sing old song -- 
 
 (Saarashi's astral body illumines before his eyes)-- 
 
 Come! float before my eyes. 
 
Thou beauteous Flame 
 
 Of Eternal Female Creation! 
 
 Art thou ocean of love or sea of fire? 
 
 My drifting soul anchored 
 
 In thy yearning depths, 
 
 My restless heart pillowed 
 
 On thy cradling waves! 
 
 My homeless feeling intoxicated 
 
 With mighty peace when I float 
 
 In thy mystic vessel. 
 
 Thou immortal-female-beauty! 
 
 Within thy chaos-bosom invisible 
 
 Love-ocean rolling, 
 
 I plunge into its yearning depths, 
 
 Where my soul formed in the Beginning 
 
 When Spirit of God moved upon Love-ocean. 
 
 What sight there, 
 Down yonder in human-blooming- valley! 
 Waves of flower dancing in air. 
 Mingling in water of life. 
 Floating down toward Love-sea! 
 Thou longing phantom figure! 
 Why thou raising mystic veil 
 Of dreaming Spring? Ah, such sight! 
 At what art thou gazing 
 With thy yearning eyes? 
 
Spirit of flowering-soul! 
 Thou showering heart! 
 
 From there thou comest to there 
 
 Thou goest - 
 
 Away, thou ghost! Away, 
 
 Thou longing shadow! Away! 
 
 Why thou hovering around me still? Away! 
 
 (Sagano takes the Scroll of sonnets composed and 
 chanted in former scene) 
 
 Ah, this track of my dream. 
 Which I perfumed before the altar 
 Of Eternal Woman! 
 Oh, Heavenly Spirit, guide me! 
 
 1 am standing on the threshold 
 Between darkness and Light! 
 Even to behold I tremble, 
 Thou my Scroll of human love! 
 
 (He advances towards the grave of the philosopher. ) 
 
 Step by step 
 
 My feet bring me to the grave, 
 
 Night by night 
 
 My life shorter than before; 
 
 A candle that burns at deep night, 
 
 A foam on rolling wave, 
 
 A flower in stormy field. 
 
 Ah me! is this human life? 
 
^9 
 
 I faced my face to the waning moon, 
 She answered me in sadness, 
 
 Eternal silence! 
 Wept and weeping I gazed on the flower 
 That smiled on the grave; 
 She whispered me in the stillness, 
 
 Eternal Now! — 
 Thou invisible friend, 
 Strangely thy spirit draws me here. 
 Where art thou wandering now 
 Under such pale ghostly moon light? 
 Art thou listening to my voice? 
 Tell me of thy silent world. 
 Come and speak to me, 
 Let me see into thy penetrating eyes, 
 Glimmering under the heavy brow. 
 Open thy tightened mouth. 
 Art thou gazing at me? 
 Art thou speaking to me? 
 Where is thy scornful lip? 
 Didst thou not scorn the moon. 
 While thy soul was wandering 
 With the dust of earth? 
 Saying 'Thou planet. 
 Charm not the children of earth 
 With thy magnetic light! 
 
Thou false light, brought infinite woe 
 Into the world/' 
 
 V/here is thy scorning mouth now 
 While the scorned moon cradles thy grave 
 In her soft light? 
 
 I remember when thou and I wandered 
 In Spring field, 
 
 Gazing at the human blooming valley; 
 Thy hated voice still murmuring in my ear- 
 ^ Woe unto the human 
 Flowering-Love- valley !" 
 Ah, yet still beauteous flower. 
 Here beside thy stone pillow 
 Watching silently. 
 
 As earth-mother cares the beloved child 
 At her side! 
 
 Oh my friend, art thou still scorning? 
 Tell me, what is death? 
 I astray between Birth and Death- 
 I more than ghost- 
 Why thy voice charms me still. — 
 This, my Song, 
 I perfume before thy soul- (Burns scroll) 
 
 (Moisture of earth rising takes the horrible shape 
 of the As-ghost, --smoke rising) 
 
 Oh, thou blood-red tongue of Inferno! 
 
(Red light flashes) AsheS of thought, 
 
 Thou black ashes of love, 
 Where art thou flying with homeless wind? 
 Oh, my friend, 
 I hear thy laughing voice 
 From bosom of grave- 
 Yet still- Ah what- Ah what!- 
 I see in dancing flame of Hell- 
 There! there [-beckoning hand— 
 My heart captured! 
 I see myriad beautiful white flames 
 Of immortal Woman, 
 Beckoning with flickering light - 
 Still I hear thy mocking voice! 
 My mind dungeoned in thy cold stone vault 
 Of Philosophy. 
 
 I hear another voice from above, 
 ^Thou art eternal journey from birth 
 Of Inferno to death of Grave. '' 
 Why remember thou not, 
 Birth and Death only a drop from His pen? 
 Here, I, amazed- 
 Where shall I fly? 
 Even the moon hides her face 
 In doubtful clouds. 
 Oh, thou fire of love still burning 
 
82 
 
 (Last breath of fire flames forth) 
 
 Within my soul burning love-fire, 
 
 More and more; 
 
 Within my heart sounding the rythm 
 
 Of my song! 
 
 Away! Away, thou blackened thought! 
 
 Away from me! 
 
 Oh, help! help! 
 
 Spirit of my friend, I invoke. 
 
 How deep imprinted in my whitened soul 
 
 Red bloody characters. 
 
 Oh scroll! scroll! 
 
 My song! my song! 
 
 Why thou sounding around me 
 
 In the air invisible? 
 
 Silence, silence! 
 
 Ah, ah thy burned thoughts issue 
 
 From the lips of silence! 
 
 Let me go from thee. 
 
 Do not open the scroll before my eyes! 
 
 Let me escape, escape! 
 
 Help, help, friend! 
 
 Oh, I am the living scroll! 
 
 Within me thou livest, my song! 
 
 Must I burn my body, 
 
 This dust of earth? 
 
Oh, my friend, art thou happy? 
 My sense falling. 
 Let me come to thee. 
 To thy calm silent home! 
 
 (He falls prostrate on the grave) 
 
 Gong strikes two. 
 
B4, 
 
 PART FOURTH 
 Scene II 
 
 (Music judgment. Moon-night, a ruined abbej' 
 by the sea, boundless meadow stretching into the 
 distance, autumn leaves scattering in the moonlight 
 Sagano silently enters with bended head and thought- 
 ful step. Leaves vShowering upon his earthy shadow 
 he looks up, gazing awhile at the falling leaves) 
 
 Ah, falling leaves, 
 
 Are ye the tears of autumn? 
 
 Ah, my figure. 
 
 More than the falling leaves 
 
 Or tears of autumn ! 
 
 Oh careless wind. 
 
 Is this the dream of floating world? 
 
 (He looks around at the abbey) 
 
 How oft in youth I wandered here 
 
 (Gazing at half -mined shrine on which a candle 
 is burning.) 
 
 How often I have knelt before thy shrine! 
 
 What a change, what a change! 
 
 Oh, my figure, my figure. 
 
 Sadder than the ruined abbey! 
 
 Look yonder in the twilight, under the tree 
 
 My infant figure wandering still! 
 
There, ah there! 
 
 It is only the track of my dream. 
 
 Ah, such a change, such a change! 
 
 (A shepard boy passes, playing his flute. Sagano 
 pauses awhile with eyes closed.) 
 
 What a warbling voice echoing in the vaults 
 Of the ruined abbey in' my mind. 
 
 (Then he looks towards the dark forest) 
 
 Oh thou virgin forest 
 In the silvery moonlight, 
 Thy praying hands beckoning. 
 Ah, who can pluck my love-dream 
 Which I left under thy beckoning sleeves? 
 Is my dream still living in my heart? 
 Am I breathing still that vaporing love? 
 Am I drinking the richer nectar of love? 
 Come, thou everlasting beauteous woman 
 And let me play again 
 On thy immortal harp! 
 
 (Red light flashes in dark forest and beauteous 
 figure of Saarashi appears, her shape slowly fading 
 into the darkness again.) 
 
 She hid away from my sight 
 In the white mist of my vision 
 Yet she left her shadow in my soul- 
 As ghostly wind passing away 
 
36 
 
 Into the dreamy forest of night 
 Am I dream or music? 
 
 (Anon starts the warbling melody in the far yon 
 meadow, Sagano's head bows, his thought drunk- 
 en in music. ) 
 
 Why my tears flow 
 With streaming silver sound of flute? 
 Oh, thou drifting melody in the twilight, 
 Thou moonlight sound of crystal stream! 
 Why art thou painting the floating scene 
 Of old memory before my eyes? 
 Invisible painter thou art! 
 Art thou sound of moon, 
 Or the voice of sorrow? 
 Judge me not, 
 sweet music. 
 
 Touching to strings of my heart, 
 Sounding in secret vault of soul, 
 Supping blood of my feeling 
 In sweet memories: 
 pain, painful sweet sound, 
 Before thy presence garment 
 Of my soul all torn! 
 Behind thy shadow fling 
 My heart all naked! 
 Oh, where can I hide me~in tears? 
 
Remain alone like living tomb, 
 
 Why hast thou not taken my breath? 
 
 Oh, cruel, sweet music, hunt me not, 
 
 Forget me in sweet memories 
 
 Of Eternal Silence! 
 
 Oh, lonely music! 
 
 Measure not my moment-rapture, 
 
 Reaching with thy trembling hands. 
 
 Oh, lonely sound ! 
 
 Hunt not my naked heart 
 
 While I dancing with shadow 
 
 Of falling petal ! 
 
 Oh, sound of loneliness! 
 
 Embrace not my humbling soul 
 
 With thy long gloomy arms. 
 
 Oh, dark sound! 
 
 Why art thou seeking me 
 
 Like shadow of myself? 
 
 Art thou hunting grave in me? 
 
 Before thy presence, lonely music, 
 
 Garment of my soul all torn! 
 
 Behind thy shadow fling, 
 
 My heart all naked! 
 
86 
 
 To My Wife's Mother. 
 
 Her life was music 
 
 She dove into the Ocean of Death 
 
 Like a white sea-bird! 
 
39 
 
 EVENING TALKS 
 AND 
 MEDITATIONS. 
 Dante. 
 
 When I first read Dante I closed my eyes 
 and saw a perfect picture of human Hf e. Three 
 divisions, Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. 
 
 Next time I read I closed my eyes and I 
 heard the wailing sound of the eternal funeral 
 of Inferno pacing toward the patient boundary 
 of Purgatory, incalcuable dream-music, vibrat- 
 ing, mingling, in Purgatory, pealing far distant 
 athwart the nine strings, ascending into infi- 
 nite silence. 
 
 The third time— the dim figure of Dante 
 floated into my vision. I saw the former picture 
 and heard the same music mingling, I felt 
 Dante's warm breath, I lost myself. I said "Am 
 I, I or Dante?" the picture vanished, the voice 
 of Dante hushed, I remained alone", with the 
 Divine Comedy, harp of God. 
 
 Dante is musical painter of human life. 
 
 How mirrors to the eyes of the orient, poet 
 Dante's figure? Let us consider the gloomy 
 
shadow of ruined cathedral figure of Dante. Is 
 it only his shadow astray in the virgin forest? 
 
 Who is he? 
 
 Deep moving sea of soul, mighty squadron 
 of will phantomed in rolling mist of unknown 
 ecstasy! wounded soul! 
 
 We must get out of the old, labored style of 
 writing. This is an electric age, and our form 
 of literature must correspond to the spirit of the 
 age, — electric expression! Modern literature is 
 tired of decorative expression, and naked soul 
 to soul v/ants to unite in one beyond material 
 pleasure, -see Rodin's ''Kiss'', how wild! No 
 moment, no time to express decoratively, but 
 swift, electric expression, feeling swifter than 
 lightning. Oscar Wilde is an electric writer. No 
 doubt that he dose not spend time on useless 
 description, but plunges into center of naked 
 soul to soul. Such a man is wilde, such is the 
 subject of ''Salome" and such is Maeterlink in 
 "Joyzelle". Modern Art deals v/ith the breath 
 of Nature, breath of Life. 
 
VOICE OF DEATH-GHOST. 
 
 (Nirvana) 
 
 I, — the voice of Death-ghost, — 
 
 Born with life; 
 
 Grave is not my home, — 
 
 My grave is human body. 
 
 Pure maiden's heart is my bed; 
 
 No one knows, so soundly I sleep there, — 
 
 I awake by the sound of her wedding bell. 
 
 I am deadly thirsty; slowly and eagerly my 
 tongue tastes human blood. 
 
 My dinner is a very simple meal, -no salad, 
 no meat, just human blood I drink, but my 
 thirst no ending. 
 
 When I feel lonesome I mirror the horrible 
 picture which I call ''Shadow of death'' before 
 the presence of human souls. 
 
 Then men fear me, astonished by me, bow 
 down their heads to God, while I smiling, they 
 cry to God. I think my joke better than preach- 
 er's sermon, but they always hate me, yet I in- 
 tend not to be entirely bad. 
 
 Hike meditation. I do not like voice of 
 v/orld at daytime, so I hide myself in bottomless 
 
bottom of love-sea and mediate there, some- 
 times unworldly creatures (poets, philosophers 
 all kinds of thinkers) come to my place, and I 
 silently invite them, welcome them, and I show 
 them how great is my eternal silent domain. 
 
 They cannot see me where I am, though 
 thy can feel me a little bit. I have not shape. 
 
 Everywhere I go I am free. Without per- 
 mission I quietly walk among them. They feel 
 me, but thy cannot scent the track of my feet. I 
 walk swifter than lightning. In less than a mo- 
 ment I round the world. Here I am, but I know 
 who are dying, far distant or near, among the 
 numberless human bodies on earth. 
 
 Long ago Buddha came to my domain and 
 asked me, ''What is death?'' I taught him a Ht- 
 tle in the silence, the wordless, secret doctrine. 
 He was pleased, and he called it ''Nirvana''. He 
 very little understands me, but he is the best 
 interpreter of me among men. He is one of the 
 best of my disciples. Once a little later Christ 
 came, knocked at my door, but I did not open 
 my portal, for it seemed to me he did not like 
 me. But at last he came through my back-door 
 very unnaturally. I was so sorry for him, — he 
 did not like me. He is not here in my domain; 
 
he is the only man after death that did not stay 
 with me. I Hke Buddha very much. I think he is 
 broader than Christ; Christ higher than Bud- 
 dha. Darkness is my Hght; twihght shadows es- 
 pecially I am fond, I like living creatures. One 
 inch they grow, same time one inch my domain 
 grows. Growing is dying; dying is growing. 
 
 My friend, a poor farmer poet (so called) 
 sang about me: 
 Step by step 
 
 My feet bring me to the grave; 
 Night by night 
 
 My life shorter than before. 
 A candle that burns at deep night; 
 A foam on the rolling wave; 
 A flower in stormy field. 
 
 Ah me, is this human life! 
 I faced my face to the waning moon; 
 She answered me in the sadness; 
 
 ^ ^Eternal silence.'' 
 Wept and weeping, 
 I gazed at the flower 
 That smiled on the grave, 
 She whispered me in the stillness : 
 
 ''Eternal now, eternal now.^' 
 Perhaps he does not understand me much ; 
 
nobody understands me perfectly. Ah, even 
 myself! But sometime in eternalless eternity I 
 may understand myself perfectly; until then I 
 keep my secret for coming pleasure. 
 
 Once Confucius disciple asked him, ' 'What 
 is death''? He answered him, ''How can you 
 understand death without knowing life"? I 
 think it wisest answer I ever heard. He knows 
 me a little. 
 
 I talk too much myself, tonight. I hear 
 the first cock crowing; I see the night shadow 
 melting into the creation-dawn. Fm hungry 
 now; 'tis my supper time. Let me drink human 
 blood; let me see naked souls kissing! 
 
 I spread my wings of death, and I soar to 
 the nest of human rest, where the webs of life 
 webbing — ah, sweet! 
 
 I drink— I di-unken— till the scarlet, bloody 
 sun fades into the whitened day! 
 
 Why the Before or the After? 
 I, a moment of the two — night melting 
 into morn! 
 
4A 
 
 LEO. TOLSTOI 
 
 Tolstoi wrote with his blood. He is the best 
 commentator on Christ, on the New Testament; 
 same rank as Dante, Goethe, Shakespeare, 
 Milton. 
 
 Tolstoi's criticism of Shakespeare as being 
 no genious, but one who knew how to fit the 
 stage, is true from Tolstoi's standpoint of 
 ' 'What is art. '' Tolstoi did not write for plea- 
 sure or how to suit the people's mind. He did 
 not intend to write the commentary of the new 
 Testament, but it seems to my eyes that He 
 has. Indeed it is an unconscious commentary of 
 the Bible! 
 
 Shakespeare tried to fit his writing to the 
 stage, to make a curio and please the people's 
 mind. But Tolstoi was forced to write; his pen 
 moved for the poor the same as Christ opened 
 his mouth for the sinner. He did not try to 
 show the people a drama, in his later works, but 
 lived one. He acted his teaching, as did Christ 
 and Buddha. Tolstoi's life is like Buddha's 
 life, while we read Tolstoi we cannot laugh ; 
 while reading, unconsciously the garment of 
 
4.6 
 
 my soul becomes orderly, I know not why. 
 
 From Tolstoi's standpoint even Shakes- 
 peare looks like a cunning rascal; as Shakes- 
 peare sometimes fools the people, but Tolstoi 
 never; so that the people could not fool Tolstoi. 
 Everything returns whatever is thought, or 
 conceived, or spoken. 
 
 In Tolstoi's work there is no cunning, but 
 in Shakespeares — ! From this point of view, 
 Shakespeare is more of an artist than Tolstoi, 
 as art must be something added to nature. Tol- 
 stoi has not time to add. In this case Tolstoi 
 more natural artist, bigger artist; Shakespeare 
 conscious artist;- Dante higher, Tolstoi broad- 
 er, Milton stronger (in poetic form.) 
 
 Ibsen and Shakespeare pretty well match- 
 ed (not quality but power equal.) I think Tolstoi 
 is above them, in character. Ibsen mirrored the 
 extreme weak points of human character which 
 are, at the same time, the strong points. In 
 ''Hidda Gabler" and ''Ghosts'' for instance, — 
 too extreme! Ibsen is the great surgeon of 
 modern literature. He deeply touch the spirit 
 of the Twentieth Century, — the spirit of 
 extreme independence. 
 
 Tolstoi says Shakespeare is not a great 
 
artist. Of course, this depends upon what 
 ground one stands, — religious, worldly 
 grounds, etc. Shakespeare is broader; Tolstoi 
 higher than Wagner or Shakespeare in religious 
 strength. Shakespeare may be wider and Wag- 
 ner better combiner. Tolstoi moral, mental 
 anarchist of the exterior world. -physical world. 
 Maeterlinck internal, metaphysical anarchist,— 
 psychological, esthetical. 
 
 'Tolstoi might, with advantage, return 
 to his art,'' says Arnold, yet I say Tolstoi's 
 art was ''going to the peasant and digging." 
 Of course with the solid English idea, Arnold 
 is right but not anarchist and Russian — 
 Tolstoi's idea greater than Arnold's — "digg- 
 ing" is his true art — I admire Tolstoi, — a 
 great statue of perfect personality of Russia. I 
 admire Arnold- great critic of art in England. 
 Both great, but standpoint different. Arnold's 
 criticism of Tolstoi's commandment's of Christ 
 is an entire mistake— for Tolstoi stands as 
 Moses in the old Testament and Arnold stands 
 on the ground of the New Testament and criti- 
 cises. That is entirely different. Of course 
 when Christ came Christianity was perfected, 
 but not in Old Testament. Russia is like the 
 
4.S 
 
 Old Testament, the age of Moses. Second 
 reason is that Tolstoi sacrificed for the peo- 
 ple, not explaining the perfect idea of Christ- 
 ianity, the genius of it, but the practical en- 
 tirely. Arnold stands for the scholastic critic- 
 ism. Third point, Tolstoi is the friend of the 
 poor and guide for them. He has two sceptres, 
 one to crush the tyrant, the other to guide and 
 direct the poor, so the commandments are 
 simply to show them how to go. 
 
 Tolstoi's ''digging with his peasants'' is his 
 best art. Tolstoi is the nineteenth century Mos- 
 es in Russia. Tolstoi guiding his people into 
 another land, — spiritual, poetic anarchist land, 
 is the same as Moses guiding his people from 
 Egypt into the Holy land, like Moses, pointing 
 the way. 
 
 Arnold's Dante is an artist but not his Tols- 
 toi. Behind Arnold is an immovable rock of 
 truth, when sword cuts the earth, at bottom 
 is this great impenetrable rock of his personal- 
 ity. 
 
49 
 
 THE THRESHOLD 
 
 OF 
 
 TRAGEDY AND COMEDY 
 
 To me Shakespeare's tragedy seems like 
 real comedy, so comedy is real tragedy. Ex- 
 ample; King Lear — above the level of hon- 
 esty — is comic. The taste of tragedy feels to my 
 tongue of literature too honest from this stand- 
 point. Now look at the figure of Lear, what a 
 damn honest fool! Nothing at all cunning 
 in his head, nothing of the craft of the wise. 
 
 Great humorist must be great sorrowful 
 Man (past sorrowful life); example, Mark 
 Twain. When tragedy becomes comedy, there 
 is true tragedy. Tragedy blending into com- 
 edy, — beyond the boundary of both realms, 
 there is true comedy and true tragedy. 
 
 Why did Shakespeare separate comedy 
 and tragedy? Divine Comedy, that is a good 
 name! Why was it called the Divine Come- 
 dy? Therein lies the meaning of my idea. — 
 
 (The Ori^i^in of title of Dante's work is not of concern 
 here. ) 
 
 Greatest comedians were Christ and Bud- 
 
dha. Yes, every great man looks like comedy. 
 My definition of comedy is unbalanced, extreme 
 honesty. Vaudeville comedians are not real 
 comedians — true comedy and true tragedy are 
 neighbors. Tolstoi is one belonging to the com- 
 edy class. We cannot separate tragedy and 
 comedy shape. 
 
 i^ m m m m m m m 
 
 While the poet dignifies and godif ies him- 
 self in clouds, the people treat him as a curio. 
 ^ The blind leading the blind.'' 
 
til 
 
 GOETHE 
 AND 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 Shakespeare condensed idea in form 
 (dramatic ability) and showed clearly to the 
 people. He spreads perfect picture or mirror 
 of the world before us. We see the characters 
 and plot develope under our eyes. In the be- 
 ginning he gathers here and there substances 
 and builds a perfect edifice showing the peo- 
 ple the complete work, the judgment. The op- 
 posite with Goethe; — in the beginning Goethe 
 illumes before our eyes the complete world of 
 human life, the middle is all broken into pieces, 
 and the end guides us into the mystic world. 
 His theme melts into the air, the universe. 
 Shakespeare never leaves judgment to the next 
 world, but judges here. In Shakespearean plays 
 God has nothing to do, all characters being 
 judged in the last act, pleasing the people of 
 the age. Shakespeare gives severe punishment 
 to the Devil; Goethe just lets him go. 
 Shakespeare wrote for world's judgment, -and 
 Goethe for supreme power. — Goethe farther 
 
33 
 
 advanced. He believed in the immortal power 
 even of beauty — Goethe gives new breath, 
 which is his own, to whatever he touches, for 
 instance, — in ''Faust,'' he takes ''Helena," — 
 already funeraled by the stone hand of theolog- 
 ians, — and how marvelously he breathes into 
 this apparition of Greek beauty new breath of 
 life! What a sublime scene when Helena's 
 earthly shadow melts into mystic air! Here 
 Goethe immortalizes elemental beauty, — blend- 
 ing it into the atmosphere of scientific liter- 
 ature. It is also interesting to study Goethe's 
 "Faust" as "Nineteenth Century Job." 
 
 I do not consider "Faust" as a drama — 
 maybe unconscious drama. I see in it, Goethe's 
 own wonderful philosophy, which is skilfully 
 and beautifully expressed in dramatic form. 
 I never read such a deep philosophy closely re- 
 lated to human life, tuned to such musical 
 strains! 
 
 Genius, before creation sees the unutter- 
 able vague of chaos floating before its eyes, 
 then soon fades away like false dawn before 
 daylight. In this moment. Genius loses itself 
 in selfless emotion and then true creation 
 
S3 
 
 comes. First false light scatters and is lost, 
 but soon true daylight comes. Genius gathers 
 forms and creates new creation and gives the 
 breath of broad daylight and sunshine. First 
 sunk into the bigness of choas and then soars 
 to the highest heaven of mighty ego and gath- 
 ers and shapes new world of open mystery. 
 Amiel first charms people in his magic air of 
 false shadow of creation but after daylight his 
 shadow disappears. Goethe has both sides, the 
 two sides of Genius. 
 
 m ^ m m m m '^ 
 
 Beyond Anarchy, beyond Imperialism, em- 
 bracing them, there is my domain, — boundless, 
 limitless, unbroken plain! In ghostly shadow, in 
 divine clouds, — there my Mighty Self -Tower 
 stands, — gazing upon tightened thoughts with 
 pitying eyes! 
 
 Christ but a Spiritual Imperialist, Buddha 
 
 but a Spiritual Anarchist; — in my Peculiar 
 
 Domain they are One! True Imperialism and 
 
 true Anarchism never against each other: — 
 
 — Everything different therefore one.— 
 
R4 
 
 MORALITY. 
 
 Morality is the color of the time — changes 
 with the waves of civilization. Philosophically 
 it is convenience. Spiritually it is the reflect- 
 ion of truth. Changing, yet unchangeable, 
 like the ocean, surface always moving, yet 
 the sea remains unchangeable. 
 
 Some believe Morality is absolute truth. 
 Catching the sparkle of the truth of the age, 
 they catch the changing figure of the waves 
 and say, 'This is the changeless Morality'', 
 but, when the sea- wind of the current of the 
 time ceases, nothing remains but the smooth 
 mirror of the sea. 
 
 We must find the secrecy beyond Moral- 
 ity. What relation has Morality to truth, to 
 God? Is not Morality the instrument in the 
 hand of Spirit? 
 
 If the Spirit does not move, Morality is 
 a useless instrument. 
 
 Behind Morality there is a mighty pow- 
 er that moves, that uses this instrument, a 
 burning spirit working within it. 
 
 What is it cultivating, with this instru- 
 
ment, in the soil of human characer? What 
 is it forging on the anvil of human soul? 
 What is it creating in the heart of genius- 
 cultivating through ages, — forging, creating, 
 endlessly? 
 
 Instrument sometimes broken or worn out, 
 too old, unfit for use, then new Instrument of 
 Morality must come. Though shape or color 
 change, instrument is instrument. 
 
 Many people are blinded by the color of 
 the time, — the instrument, — they do not see 
 behind, the working power, the mover. We 
 must cast behind us, when the time has come, 
 the old Morality, we must not hesitate. At 
 last Morality is simply a convenience of hu- 
 man life; we must use it for convenience sake, 
 but power alone can move this convenient in- 
 strument, but if we use it in unwise, unskilf ull 
 way, terrible disaster will be the result, in a 
 good way, wonderful good results. 
 
 We, the men of the earth, are farmers. 
 With the instrument of Morality, we cultivate 
 the soil of character, of mind, well, rich, fine, 
 for planting. But they are foolish men who 
 are willing to suicide with Morality, and sac- 
 rifice their higher manhood. Use instrument, 
 
I say, scientific, advanced instrument. 
 
 Everything advances toward perfection, 
 not only Morality. 
 
 Casting behind old ideas, garments, 
 every day new ones. 
 
 But unchanging is the power. Working man, 
 farmer, dies, and instrument wears out, but 
 power still there. This power, when it shines, 
 appears as the sun, moon, stars or other plan- 
 ets. When this power moves on the face of 
 the waters, it appears as perfect love and light, 
 and reflects the whole world, all planets, the 
 universe, myriad colors; — these are the steps 
 of power, the waves of history. 
 
 This power weaves the beautiful fabric of 
 Morality, according to the base of this power, 
 according to this power's age and time. 
 
 Ah, at last! Morality is the instrument of 
 God, changing, unchangeable, — a shadow, or 
 color of power. 
 
WOMAN'S AGE DAWNING. 
 
 This is Woman's age! 
 
 The barbaric age pretty near its ending. 
 
 Barbaric beauty represents Man; Women 
 represent softened beauty. 
 
 War warrior, bloodshed, belong to wild 
 beauty; 
 
 Soft beauty is the very center of soul or 
 spirit, breath of creation, conception, nature 
 of every element, delicate, refined. 
 
 In creation, as in Genesis, matter is class- 
 ified thus — chaos, land, water, beast, fowl, 
 man; very last cration — woman. 
 
 Woman stands or is born for beauty; man 
 for truth. 
 
 But beauty is warmer than truth, also em- 
 braces it. 
 
 Beauty touches more human life — yet 
 more ethereal-delicate-than truth. 
 
 Truth is heavy. 
 
 If Truth is a stone. Beauty is the moss. 
 
 Soft beauty embraces hard truth, as in hu- 
 man beings. 
 
 The foundation of the house of humanity is 
 
already built, inside is being beautified —the 
 dawn of Woman^s age. Later ideal Man and 
 Woman shall dwell there! 
 
 After two or three thousand years, Wo- 
 man's age being over, then shall come great 
 waves of equal age, — ideal Man and Woman. 
 
 This is Beauty Age, not Barbaric age. 
 
 Poetry belongs to Woman. Philosophy be- 
 longs to man. 
 
 Too much philosophy is very cold, but 
 foundation of poetry is philosophy. Foundation 
 of philosophy is poetry, — therefore we want 
 an equality. Foundation of Woman is Man, 
 but at the same time Man is born from Woman. 
 Great rolling waves of Man's barbaric age ceas- 
 ing; the soft beauty of God, Woman's age com- 
 ing! Woman shall guide the current of the 
 times. 
 
 Awake, Woman! The world is advancing 
 toward your warm, soft civilzation. 
 
 We are passing the barbaric civilation of 
 Manhood, — fighting, wild education, dying. 
 
 But your electric education awaking, ap- 
 proaching. 
 
 Art thou not the tomb of love and light? 
 
 Woman thou art the soil of the celestial 
 
S9 
 
 kingdom, whereon grows the Holy Tree. But, 
 Ah eternal woman, who planted that tree and 
 who opened thy heavenly gate? Man! the Man! 
 Half of thy soul eternal Man. Eternal Man 
 unites with eternal Woman, thus comes the 
 perfect one. 
 
 Indeed the Poet of Weimar's soul was in- 
 spired by supreme Womanhood. 
 
 I stretch my hand to thee, Seer of Weimar. 
 I honor thy mystic pen which guided the soul 
 of Faust into the celestial heaven, by the 
 fragrance of a plucked flower. 
 
 Woman! Woman! What mysterous being 
 thou art! 
 
 Even to utter thy name I tremble. 
 What joyous love-light, conceived in thy chaos 
 womb! 
 
 Wonderful, generous giver, thou Woman. 
 Thou opened the mystic gate of Resurrection. 
 Art thou not the tombed God? 
 
 Who first beheld the resurrection of Christ? 
 Not strong Peter, but the softened eyes of 
 Mary. Consider her figure. What charming 
 power brought her delicate feet, o'er the rough 
 path to the tomb? 
 
 Did she not know the heavy stone was 
 
impossible to move with her willow hand? Be- 
 fore she weeping arrived, the tomb gate 
 opened. 
 
 What a strong faith, hope, love dwelt in 
 her delicate earthly form! She was the first 
 who saw the light of resurrection. 
 
 On, Woman, everlasting Woman! Thou 
 art the gate of Heaven; Peter hath the key, 
 well let Man open it. 
 
 Who brought forth this immortal singer 
 into the world? This Great love-light issued 
 from unlocked portals of everlasting Woman- 
 hood. This heavenly poet! Man of sorrows! 
 
 Ah, indeed! The Bard of Florence per- 
 fumed his illumined soul before the altar of 
 Eternal Woman in the immovable heaven. 
 
 Who destroyed the pure character of Mar- 
 guerite? It was the man Faust. Who guided 
 his soul into celestial heaven? It was she, re- 
 presentative Woman, Marguerite. 
 
 Who guided great poet Dante's soul into 
 the Ninth heaven? Beatrice, — everlasting wo- 
 manhood! Who opened the Portal of Dream! 
 
61 
 
 THE PASSING OF JOAQUIN. 
 
 Wounded Lion, howling toward the dead moon 
 Funeraled by the anxious clouds of doubt; 
 Glittering his eye — 
 Flickering, softened by dreadful pain ; 
 Now groaning against the dark sound 
 
 of ebbing tide. 
 Calling his dead mates; 
 Gazing toward the gloomy beckoning hand 
 
 of Fate. 
 Sudden turned to eastward, where floats 
 The scene of ''bravest battle'' of past shadow 
 
 of life. 
 List, far yon billow! 
 Dark sound of ghostly waves dashing 
 
 against shore of life! 
 
 Aged Dragonish Pine falls on Mother Earth, 
 
 With sounding stormy wind of life. 
 
 Ah! where is now thy martial arm that held 
 
 scepter, 
 Ever swaying currents of the time? 
 Where art thou now sailing in vessel of Death. 
 With thy hoary beard tossing against 
 
62 
 
 ghostly wind, 
 That wafts to the Unknown Strand, 
 Saihng ^^onandon"? 
 Bravest Soul ever fought in stormy field, 
 Gone, with parting voice of ebbing tide, 
 While sound of evening gong wailing. 
 Gone, gone to the Eternal Land. 
 Bravest Soul sails on. 
 
 His soul, as eagle flew from martial sleeve 
 
 of Dying Pine, 
 Flying on wings of Death; 
 Miles million in a moment soars. 
 Glaring his fire-eye! 
 Soaring, sailing ''on and on" — 
 Through the clouds 
 To the bottomless, boundless, limitless realm 
 
 of eternal silent song. 
 Where starry mates throng. 
 Bravest Eagle-soul, 
 Soaring upward — on! 
 

 es 
 
 Look yon, upon the pyre burning reluctant 
 
 Dream! 
 Let soft hand of ageless Silence funeral 
 
 earthly Shadow sublime; 
 Let voiceless voice of God utter honor 
 supreme. 
 Farewell, bold Pilot-Soul, 
 Till we melt all in One Mystery unknown! 
 
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