My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair；

    Set all your mind upon the steep ascent，

    Upon the broken， crumbling battlement，

    Upon the breathless starlit air，

    Upon the star that marks the hidden pole；

    Fix every wandering thought upon

    That quarter where all thought is done：

    Who can distinguish darkness from the soul？

    My Self. The consecrated blade upon my knees

    Is Sato‘s ancient blade， still as it was，

    Still razor-keen， still like a looking-glass

    Unspotted by the centuries；

    That flowering， silken， old embroidery， torn

    From some court-lady‘s dress and round

    The wooden scabbard bound and wound，

    Can， tattered， still protect， faded adorn.

    My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man

    Long past his prime remember things that are

    Emblematical of love and war？

    Think of ancestral night that can，

    If but imagination scorn the earth

    And intellect its wandering

    To this and that and t‘other thing，

    Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

    My Self. Montashigi， third of his family， fashioned it

    Five hundred years ago， about it lie

    Flowers from I know not what embroidery—

    Heart‘s purple—and all these I set

    For emblems of the day against the tower

    Emblematical of the night，

    And claim as by a soldier‘s right

    A charter to commit the crime once more.

    My Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflows

    And falls into the basin of the mind

    That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind，

    For intellect no longer knows

    Is from the Ought， or Knower from the Known—

    That is to say， ascends to Heaven；

    Only the dead can be forgiven；

    But when I think of that my tongue‘s a stone.

    II

    My Self. A living man is blind and drinks his drop.

    What matter if the ditches are impure？

    What matter if I live it all once more？

    Endure that toil of growing up；

    The ignominy of boyhood； the distress

    Of boyhood changing into man；

    The unfinished man and his pain

    Brought face to face with his own clumsiness；

    The finished man among his enemies？—

    How in the name of Heaven can he escape

    That defiling and disfigured shape

    The mirror of malicious eyes

    Casts upon his eyes until at last

    He thinks that shape must be his shape？

    And what‘s the good of an escape

    If honour find him in the wintry blast？

    I am content to live it all again

    And yet again， if it be life to pitch

    Into the frog-spawn of a blind man‘s ditch，

    A blind man battering blind men；

    Or into that most fecund ditch of all，

    The folly that man does

    Or must suffer， if he woos

    A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

    I am content to follow to its source，

    Every event in action or in thought；

    Measure the lot； forgive myself the lot！

    When such as I cast out remorse

    So great a sweetness flows into the breast

    We must laugh and we must sing，

    We are blest by everything，

    Everything we look upon is blest.