Pathway to Japanese Literature

Taisho 7th Year (1918)

Taisho 8th Year (1919)

Taisho 7th Year: Casual Verses

Farewell Poetry Gathering for Saitō Mokichi

Taisho 6th Year, December 25th, at Mokichi’s residence in Aoyama, Tokyo

The day approached when I would depart without seeing the white frost on the roof of the house where I dwelled.

Occasions After My Arrival in Nagasaki

The scent of the tatami in the house I moved into left even my heart listless, and I lay there.

I went to buy a portable bath, yet again tonight returned without purchasing it and slept in loneliness.

The little one I left behind in Tokyo—Shigeta must have grown so big by now.

Since my sleep in this temporary lodging was shallow and I awoke, outside on the road, rain was falling.

The sound of Shōfuku-ji’s bell was heard passing over the roof tiles of clustered houses nearby.

When I came to Urakami Village at dusk, the frogs croaked, filling the valley.

Winged ants swarmed and flew around the electric light; naturally shedding their wings, they crawled across the tatami.

Bowing my head and hurrying along the road, I thought to go buy fireflies tonight.

In the field where gray seabirds had flocked, the morning sunlight shone clear and pure.

Having come from afar and dwelling in solitude, I watched the sun settle upon Nagasaki's mountain ridges.

In Mutsu, friends kept dying one after another; the sunlight did not linger even for the blink of an eye.

Though I resolved that I would not live long in peace, why did friends keep dying one after another these days?

I grieved for friends who stood in memory’s light while closing my eyes in the cramped bath.

In this temporary lodging, rising and lying down time and again, I grieved my wife’s willful ways.

Though I deemed transience ultimately sorrowful, the grief of lives drawing near pressed upon me.

The sharp sound of rain falling at the entrance of this muggy house—had I grown weary?

Nagasaki’s stone-paved road—before one knew it, the sun’s hue grew intense; summer had arrived.

In the second floor of this temporary lodging where I sat alone, mosquitoes began to fly near me.

Stonecrop grows on my house’s stone wall; from beneath those leaves, mosquitoes have emerged.

From the house across the way—hearing carpenters’ nighttime labor in Nagasaki dialect—how lonely it feels.

Nagasaki Poetry Gathering

November 11th, Taisho 7th Year, at Saitō Mokichi’s Residence – Theme: “Night”

Fearing the contagious winds and heeding warnings, I lay alone on my bed in the early night as the cold rain fell.

Taisho 8th Year: Miscellaneous Poems

Poem for Welcoming His Imperial Highness the Prince Regent – Published in the Nagasaki Nichinichi Shimbun

Toyosaka—indeed renewed and flourishing—His Imperial Highness deigns to come forth to perform the land-surveying ritual.

With awe too profound for words, in Nagasaki's ancient sea His Imperial Highness's vessel deigns to arrive.

To a thousand generations they celebrate with roaring cannons; the spring mountains resound in answer through the night.

The people’s celebratory cries resound—would they not reach the very heavens above this harbor?

(Nagasaki Nichinichi Shimbun; four extant poems out of ten)

To Friends

The harbor thrived; light struck the mountain’s young leaves—ah, how tranquil was this departing spring.

Nagasaki’s stone-paved roads—they were said to resemble Venice’s age-old alleys.

How pure was the sound that reached me unbidden—water flowing from spring mountains.

Though I resolved to strain myself and follow duty unbidden, ah—these days remained painfully raw.

Though faint and tenuous, let not my designs grow clouded in this fleeting world of mine.

(Nagasaki Nichinichi Shimbun)

August 30th

A small gathering of Nagasaki literary colleagues was held at Tsuchihashi Seison’s residence.

The katydid’s song through a night of poetry—this disordered heart found no solace.

Since coming to Nagasaki, there had been no poems of pathos—do not ask me, lonely one.

September 2nd: I grieved my daily solitude.

White-robed sarusuberi flowers scattered as the Buddhist temple’s sunlight grew intense.

Hearing Nakamachi Cathedral’s bell nearby—it seemed two summers had now passed.

September 10th – Kōdaiji Temple

The wife of Hendrik Doeff was a woman of Nagasaki, namely she who gave birth to Michitomi Jōkichi.

September 10th – Cathedral

Urakami Cathedral—the Hall of the Immaculate Santa Maria—or perhaps was simply referred to as the hall.

The missionary priests who had come from foreign lands also "labored day and night."

They passed away there.

September 12th

I observed a German submarine.
The prefectural office attendant said, “The submarine resembles Chinese shoes.”
In the evening, I visited Shikairo in Shinchi.

I boarded and disembarked from the German submarine moored at the shore of Nagasaki Harbor.

At Shikairo, there was a maiden named Chen Yu; today too, I returned while gazing intently at her.

September 25th: Together with Messrs. Koga and Mutō, I visited the Jewish Temple.
It was the Jewish New Year.

The Jewish year 5680—its New Year coincided with this very day.

The young man who had come here from Manchuria shouted and wept, clinging to the table.

Lessner and Cohn, being merchants in Nagasaki, both wore glistening ceremonial robes.

October 25th

Trip to Hirado.

Hirado Maru and inn.
I met Kokuni Rika.
Sakigata-machi Dutch Wall, Dutch Well, Kikkō Castle Ruins, Kameoka Shrine, and others.

The Dutch merchants had left this behind for their own livelihoods.

Even such poignant tales must have existed—yet people passed by without so much as a keepsake.

I beheld the ancient kagura dance of Hizen Hirado, having crossed the sea to come here.

October. The Tokyo Grand Sumo arrived.
I met Shaka-dake, Kyūshū-zan, Chōkō-zan, Hide-no-yama, Dewa-dake, and others.

Dewa-dake, who had come for the tour, ate champon at my house without voicing any dissatisfaction.

October 30th: In the evening, I attended Mr. Koga Jūniro’s lecture “Nagasaki Art History.”

The arrival of Nanban paintings too had the manner of pollen drifting in—existing unnoticed through time.

October 30th

I listened to Reverend Akegarasu Toshi's sermon at Kōgen-ji Temple and afterward visited the Narutaki Siebold ruins.

At this site grew various trees; in the bamboo grove sounded winter flies buzzing.

November 6th

I viewed a painting by Shiba Kōkan: “Respectfully copied by Shiba Shun on a winter day in Tenmei 8 (1788) at Koyō Goshin-ji Temple, Nagasaki.”

Kōkan came here and infused his heart into the colors—how I long to behold his Cloud-Suspended Kannon Painting.

December 28th: I visited Shōfuku-ji Temple with Watanabe Tomohei.

The brushwork from Ingen’s eighty-first year seemed to bear the visage of an aged saint.

December 30th

Mid-November: My wife came from Tokyo accompanied by Shigeta.
That evening, I visited Ōura Nagasaki Hotel with the two of them.

Tonight I came to a Western-style restaurant in Ōura with four-year-old Shigeta.
In Nagasaki’s cold night as the seasonal wind grew fierce, I did not let my child go outside.
Cold rain fell sporadically, the seasonal wind did not abate—Nagasaki’s year drew to its close.

Taisho 9th Year (1920)

January 6th

My younger brother Seiyō arrived from Tokyo.

I had dinner with my wife and Shigeta at Nagasaki Hotel in Ōura, but from midnight I developed a fever and continued to lie in bed.

Having feared the epidemic for a year and passed through, I lay here, neither present nor absent.

Some day in February. I lay in bed.
The private orphanage was directly across from my house.

Every morning, the children recited the Shōshinge; though parentless, their voices remained cheerful.

My illness at last healed—seeping into my heart were the voices of children chanting morning sutras.

The clangor of iron from the shipyard across the shore resounded like a distant storm.

The hammering of metal like some far-off tempest—tonight again I listened until night grew deep.

March 1st. Day after day, I worked.

The young one who had come from Tokyo greeted me each evening with voices raised,

May 4th: Held a first-anniversary poetry gathering for Michio Miura at Daikō-ji Temple.

In Nagasaki's quiet temple where I have come, toads are croaking at the outer pond.

At the outer pond’s edge, fish leap—the momentary sound of their splashes carries a note of loneliness.

You say the wisteria waves’ blossoms endure—
as night’s color deepens evermore.

They say a full year has passed since you died—yet you died at May's very start.

In this mountain temple, quiet in the night—deep in the forest, a heron cries.

Gazing at the mountain temple at dusk—faintly appears the mercury-colored harbor.

From Kokonomi Temple, within sight—the roof tiles of the Chinese temple’s gate also begin to fade into dusk.

May 24th

I welcomed Mr. Ōtsuki Joden and shared a meal at Keirinkan Hall.
The attendees were Messrs. Koga Jūniro, Mutō Chōzō, Nagayama Tokihide, Okuda Keiichi, and myself.

Not only was it centered around Siebold but also stood as the very source of Western studies.

May 25th: Walked alone through Nishizaka.

They have called Nishizaka an impure land of the padres and passed down the label—how sorrowful it is.

Two Tanzaku

Having come unexpectedly to Nagasaki, your abundant heart grew dear to me (To Director Nagayama)

You who illuminate Nagasaki's ancient matters—how noble you are, how poignantly noble (To Venerable Koga Jūniro)

“In Keichō 10 [1605], seeds were first brought from the Southern Barbarians and sold at Nagasaki Sakurababa” (Modern Accounts of Worldly Affairs: Kinshi-en; Tobacco)

Though I deemed it but a humble medicinal herb, how many years have passed since tobacco alone...

I borrowed and viewed the Catholic Church Monthly Report of Osaka Tenshu Catholic Church from Professor Mutō Chōzō.

After seeing the thick camphor tree at Daiō-ji Temple, I copied the songs from the Catholic Church report upon returning.

May 30th: Held a dinner gathering at Tatsumi in Raigaoka’s Usei-ro (Shuhan Villa), among other events.

When daylilies came into bloom in the garden, we gathered while feeling nostalgia.

June 1st

Walked alone through Nishizaka.
Stone pagoda: “Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō – An’ei 5, Year of the Fire Monkey (1776), 28th day of the fourth month.” Stone marker: “To the Dharma Pagoda at Umagome, where a thousand souls from All Under Heaven’s execution grounds lie buried: we humbly request all who pass to pay their respects.”
*“Nagasaki City Higashi-Nakamachi Nakajima-no-i Ken”*

In Nagasaki’s barley-harvest autumn, on this cloudy day—I alone find peace of mind here.

June 2nd: Arrived at Nishiuragami Ikiriki.

From the fields, white smoke rose visible—it seemed the barley-harvest autumn had come.

June 25th

In early June, I experienced minor hemoptysis; as my condition showed no improvement, today I was admitted to the prefectural hospital.
It was West 2 Ward, Room 7.
Professor Suganuma conducted a consultation.

How many ailing souls must have passed through this room—these walls stand thick.

As evening falls, mosquitoes swarm and buzz; the coughing of ailing patients also reaches my ears.

In the deepening dark—crickets chirp; though I listen, I, a patient, must not let my heart grow calm.

June 27th

Blood came forth.

Ōkubo Nio, hospitalized with renal tuberculosis, came and inquired about my illness.

My heart—as though a storm had subsided—in my sleeping quarters, I drank water.

Facing the darkness, I opened my eyes—the boundless desolation of things.

A young friend came to be by my side—this friend too has finally fallen ill.

July 2nd: I was discharged from the Prefectural Hospital.
From the 3rd onward, I lay in bed at home devoting myself to treatment.

Seeing wild grasses thrive—from the vase arrangement rose earth’s breath, a verdant scent.

In the early afternoon, a quail egg seller came to the entrance of my sickroom.

The white magnolia blossoms at dusk—they seem to shroud my sorrow.

July 22nd: Takaya Hiroshi came daily and administered chromium calcium injections.

While illuminating the narrow courtyard of my home, I came to cherish the fading light.

Even in the narrow space of a one-tsubo courtyard, insects engaged in life’s struggle resided. The young internist Dr. Hiroshi came daily and administered medicine into my veins.

Having come to Nagasaki, as four summers deepen—the white crape myrtles, have they not yet bloomed?

July 24th: Shimaki Akahiko came from afar and inquired about my illness.

On Nagasaki's sweltering day you came—tears streamed from my eyes.

Though I may pass with this transient life, let not your heart grow hollow, my friend.

Convalescence at Onsendake

July 26, Taisho 9th Year (1920): Together with Messrs. Shimaki Akahiko and Tsuchihashi Seison, I ascended Onsendake and lodged at Yorozuya.
It was to cure my illness.

On the 27th, Akahiko returned.
On the 28th, Seison returned.

This path winds deep into the mountain gorge—yet here I halt my steps.

Standing upon this path, I wonder—has Akahiko already crossed beyond the peaks?

Where might Akahiko journey? Alone he descended this mountain trail.

O poignant flower amidst the grasses—you who nurture my ailing life in these mountain thickets.

In Michinoku's realm, young and sorrowing—I plucked bellflowers once.

Cherishing this ephemeral life—to rumbling hot-spring mountains I have come.

Having climbed to the hot springs, here I remain—how fleeting even the cloud’s light.

Leaving the hot spring village—in the shadowy valley, the sound of water rises.

The path plunges deep into the gorge—could this ravine be where the sun’s light never reaches?

Facing Chijiwa Nada below—countless valleys sigh; the mountains undulate.

From towering mountain heights I watch—Amakusa’s open sea now veiled by clouds.

July 28th

This morning, on the path my friend took—the sun shines; gazing upon it, I long.

Having left home and come here—the pale path of Onsendake comes into view.

How affectionately close the small birds must be—I draw near to the Summer Green Mountain.

At the mountain’s base—the grove darkens in stillness; leaving home behind, I come with longing in my heart.

Because the ferns' thick growth had surrounded me, a lone late-summer cicada chirped nearby.

At times, the sound of coughing could be heard—in the depths of the mountain, a woodcutter was at work.

In my sickbed, I who have made my body lonely see the mountain ranges undulate away.

At play—clouds drift and shift in twilight’s veil; near mountains darken, distant mountains bright.

Under summer sun, the pastoral plateau grew quiet; I watched the hot spring mountain fade into dusk.

On the plateau where distant winds still whispered, as evening deepened, horses gathered.

The water’s light slanted diagonally on the plateau where horses had gathered; they did not run.

July 29th: Maeda Tokuhachirō and Takaya Hiroshi ascended to Hirokawara Road and other areas and arrived.

At the time when the sound of wind through pines could be heard both far and near, I depart.

The silk tree flowers hang low with fragrance; I find no inclination to pluck them.

The heavenly sun has already risen; evening cicadas sing in the distant mountain, but here they do not.

At the wayside of a passing path, the gumi berries are faintly red—may their crimson reach its peak.

From the red soil path to the black soil slope it becomes—whether going forth or turning back, it lingers in my heart.

July 30th

The moonlight from the hot-spring mountain was unshadowed and illuminated the silver clock placed by the pillow.

In Nagasaki, having stayed two years—the chorus of dawn cicadas I had never heard.

By the bedside where I placed a clock and notebook, the dawn moon still shone.

Rising, I stood upon the tatami; the distant moon continued to tilt.

On the mountain’s crest, an autumn cicada cried briefly at dawn; when I listened, its voice resembled a cricket’s.

Dawn’s thin mist soaked this mountain where sundews bloomed faintly.

Enduring loneliness in my sickbed through dawns and dusks, the blue mountains press upon me.

July 30th and 31st: Bessho Oku, Within the Forest

In the remote depths of Bessho hot springs, Westerners who had come from afar dwelled among others.

Sunlight filtering through trees—on a patch of damp soil, faint insects began to stir.

The mountain stream’s flowing sound—having entered the boulder’s shadow and grown inaudible—this moment—

Two cows came and lingered in the grove; yesterday too they had visited this place and remained.

The heavenly sun falls crimson into the mountain; at its base lies a sea unseen.

The children who have fled from Russia too have bathed in the waterfall of Hazama.

August 1st: Issaikyō Waterfall et cetera

In layered mountains' clefts—a cascade stands bearing Christianity's history.

Through southern-gaping gorge depths where torrents plunge—I traced their course.

From this peak where countless springs arise converging—they fall to chasms below.

Contemplating rest, my mind stayed calm; at foothills burned crimson—the sun declined.

The evening glow of the setting sun—here on this mountain's plateau I stay, and for a time will gaze.

August 2nd

In predawn darkness upon this mountain swarm cicadas' crying voices.

While hearing seething springs roar through stone fields I spend my day.

Though secluded ten days at the hot spring peak, I lament alone that my throat remains unrefreshed.

Not knowing what karma made these waters rage, from the foot-dragging mountain's depths emerges a stony field.

The evening cicadas sing deep in the mountains; the nearby peaks where none cry bask in sunlight.

The mountain-secluded song of chirring cicadas resembles crickets' plaintiveness when heard alone.

August 3rd: Valley

Today again I sit upon the sandy shore of a mountain spring, cherishing my ailing throat.

The wind blowing through trees atop the valley was strong; yet by the stone where I sat, all remained quiet.

After the rain clears, the valley stream runs fierce; yesterday and today alike, it courses stained ochre.

In this mountain where crows are few, as evening falls, a single small crow descends to the ground.

On the lower branches of the oak grove in the mountain's shadow, mountain silkworms dwell—perhaps unknown to the birds.

By the water's edge where great stones cluster in the valley, my heart has grown calm—or so it seems.

August 3rd: Hirokawahara Road

On the narrow mountain path I tread, where thistles cluster thick to one side—the grove comes into view.

Where mountain ranges press close here—when I look down into the deep valley, my heart finds no rest.

After a time, facing Myōken Peak of the hot spring—the radiance of its clouds.

On the bench meant for gazing back at Nagasaki, Russian letters and names were carved.

When facing Mount Tara—at the hot spring’s mountain where autumn begins—garments flutter.

At the solitary peak where I rest, a lacquer tree remains small; people never look back.

As I wound through crags and came—the island mountain and Amakusa’s sea spread open before my eyes.

At the shore where white waves break into view—from this height—how splendidly I behold it.

All things steeped in autumn’s chill—at Hirokawahara’s water’s edge—a horse stands without running.

In the mountain shade, when I listen again today, the evening cicadas resemble autumn crickets in their loneliness.

As I enter the mountain sedge, my feet halt—while wiping the sweat from my brow, I...

August 4th: The valley—behind Onsen Shrine (Shimenomiya, Kunitama Shrine), the stony field fell silent.

When I came to the stony field and fell silent, the shadow of clouds that had passed over my living stone became one.

Small frogs and their kind leaped away; the water having dried up revealed a white stone field.

Red spider lilies about to bloom had blossomed along the path descending to the stony field.

All day today with clouds ceaselessly shifting, upon the stony field I felt dizziness.

From where sulfur roared forth with sound, in the nearby grove dwelled mountain silkworms.

August 5th: Hirokawahara, Kinugasa-yama

As I traverse this mountain, listening to Nagasaki’s noon cannon in poignant wonder

Near Kinugasa’s peak resounds the cannon announcing Nagasaki’s noon.

Having come to the deep mountain’s lake—jet-black cows drank water.

A road traversed the mountain plain; now and then horses were seen galloping along.

The mountain stream secluded within layered peaks—would southern currents emerge from here?

August 6th, Evening Scene: Valley

Looking down from where I sat in the valley, there lay upon the stone's edge a place where the setting sun's light did shine. My steps without reason—though the valley floor had darkened, water still sounded.

The sun into the sea has set, I suppose—this distant evening glow does dye my heart.

If I listened to the sound of water flowing through the deep valley of the mountain that had darkened—how ceaseless it was;

The water flowing through the valley’s depths now flowed onward through darkness—the sorrow of its sound.

I had been contemplating the sea god's realm; stood still on the path grown dark.

Through dark skies an insect flies wing-buzzing as I tread wearily over the pass.

When I witness evening glow's crimson hue—no common sight upon this mountain height.

August 7th: Valley

I have descended to the valley floor; even my soliloquy now falls silent as I close my eyes.

Thinking it must be near noon, I take four or five steps and wash my eyes in the mountain stream water.

When I cross the water and still proceed—the scent of piled-high fallen leaves—ah, those fallen leaves!

In the water threading through stones at the valley floor where fish dwell—the sorrow made visible.

O light that illuminates the thick leaves of trees enveloping this valley—how I yearn.

The heavenly sun that illuminates the leaves of trees so verdantly—now does not shine upon the stones at the valley floor.

Though I deem it a faint stream's flow—when evening draws near, its sound grows lonesome.

On stone moss where my spit lies comes a winged insect that does not depart—how I pity it.

When I look upon stones clustered where strong waters must have rushed through this narrow space,

Where moss grows thickly green and ferns cluster dense upon stones, mountain-flowing water keeps them perpetually drenched.

Listening to valley water threading through stone gaps—here I spent the day.

When I climbed toward the headwaters, the stream’s path lay hidden beneath fallen leaves.

Stone hollows where water ever surges—the spring’s resonant flow; alas, I alone beheld.

Crossing a mountain stream that flowed self-willed, I reached where green hills came into view.

Having passed a day in stillness—to this valley where mountain waters flow, I came.

Drawn by the mountain stream’s familiar murmur—I arrived and held my tongue.

Walking the mountain path—how nostalgic! Even midsummer’s chill valley path—how nostalgic!

Thick trees leaning densely in the oak grove—beneath their spread I shall behold the water’s shimmer.

Having emerged from the valley depths where waters flow, I return along the lonely sun-dappled path.

August 8th: Forest Interior, Valley, Mountain

Today again, to spend quietly; entering amidst the summer mountain’s green depths, I remain.

Pale white through rock crevices flows the faint water; how I feel a poignant wonder as I dwell here.

How I love even the hoofprints of horses trampling the soil at the mountain stream’s source!

The wind blowing over the stones is cold, and upon the stones it invites sleep.

At the valley’s edge where I had descended, I saw a small white sun bleach a moment.

August 9th: Kannon Hall

In the Kannon Hall where I rested, there was a guest register bearing names like Wixon, Nicol, Spark.

August 10th: Valley, Forest

The sun shone upon the valley floor; ah, the decayed hue of deep fallen leaves in the valley depths!

Today again I had come to the valley shade; the natural sound of mountain water reached my ears.

The fish fry—delicate beings fearing all things—dwelt within the spring’s water.

The people who climbed to Myōken to pray for rain drank from this valley's water with their lips pressed to it.

August 11th

At 3:00 a.m., Takaya Hiroshi, Ōhashi Matsudaira, Maeda Tokuhachirō, and others ascended Fugen-dake.
I remained at the lodging; after breakfast, walked in the woods.

Where cedars cluster thick on Mukaiyama, at times a train of crows flies away.

Summer deepens of its own accord; in the hot spring mountains, silkworms too enclose themselves in cocoons.

August 12th

Dr. Kubo (Inokichi) examined me with due ceremony.
Madam also sent confections through his kind offices.

He spoke at length about Ascanais's work in Geneva as evening fell peacefully.

That you came to this mountain collecting insect eggs—how it endears you to me.

Though he examined my illness with care, had he been cheerful, my heart would not have found calm.

He also told of Onpei's hot spring—this thoughtful kindness I shall not forget.

Mrs. Yorie visited me at Yorozuya and spoke of Nagatsuka Setsu.

Nagasaki

August 14th: Departed Onsen-dake and returned to Nagasaki.
My illness remained unhealed.
On the 16th, I had a tooth extracted; I visited the dentist daily.

August 19th: Strolled through Suwa Park.
From the day I ascended Onsen-dake, I ceased smoking tobacco.

Having returned to Nagasaki and removed my decayed tooth, I cherish life.

I arose from my sickbed on a sweltering day; the mountain opposite grows blue with dusk.

From the stone steps of the park, I gazed upon Nagasaki’s streets—crape myrtle flowers.

From the hot spring I returned; through sweltering days I visit the dentist with a tranquil heart.

August 25th: Fukusai-ji Temple

Having climbed Fukusai-ji Temple's stone-paved path—the whispering tufts of grass and I alone.

In stone crevices grows faint grass; being ill, my heart turns sorrowful.

Nagasaki's noon cannon—Nakamachi's cathedral bell—this Zen temple's bell.

At Fukusai-ji I sit gazing—crimson in scattered town corners, crape myrtle blooms.

August 26th: Supine

All things must pass—this present self, let me live quietly, I pray.

Oh my own pitiful self—not permitted even on my final day to surrender completely.

In my quiet resting place, pale green grasshoppers have come flying.

August 27th: Supine
August 28th: Supine; Nagasaki Shōrō Nagashi

The day of Shōrō Nagashi came; though the harbor was filled with people, I lay abed.

August 29th: Since my second brother in Hokkaido sent a photograph of his eldest daughter Tomiko,

Seeing Tomiko clinging to her mother's breast, my heart was soothed.

In a land of high mountains and great rivers was born an infant; I offer praise.

When I behold your likeness from afar, my heart dances with such joy.

Karatsu Beach

August 30th

Departed Nagasaki at 8:15 a.m., departed Kubota at 1:35 p.m., arrived in Karatsu at 3:15 p.m., lodged at Kimuraya Ryokan.
I went together with Takaya Hiroshi.

For over five days now, I traveled without uttering a word, pencil in hand, writing as I went.
Staying at Karatsu Beach in Hizen, I passed the days like a mute.

August 31st: Stayed at Kimuraya Ryokan

At this seaside lodging in Karatsu—time and again, the crunch between teeth—the sorrow of sand in rice.

All night I listened to the tide’s roar; when I woke, even my tomorrow seemed as fleeting as this.

Having ascended to the castle ruins and crouched there, I saw the brightness of the moon’s shadow shining on the stone wall.

September 1st: For the repose of executed souls—Kyōhō 2nd Year, Rooster Cycle, 17th Day of the Ninth Month [1717].

On the sandy beach stand aged graves of the executed—into what depths of crime had they fallen?

People cross to Mitsushima to revel; bathed in the departing moon’s light, we too move onward.

September 3rd: All day in sandy silence.

All day long I came to the sandy plain and remained silent; the sea wind blows fiercely against my body.

September 4th: Sandy Beach

While mindful of sand mixed in the rice, I passed the days at this seaside inn.

At the end of a solitary journey through vast distances, in Iki’s night cold, Sora perished.

A solitary journey ending in death—how pitiful! Compared to Sora’s Genroku-era travels.

How sorrowful Sora’s fate that ended near Korea—when I think of being alone.

At the morning shore, I closed my eyes and was bathed in heaven’s soft light.

Heal this illness—morning sun’s light, crimson-shining light.

While staying at Karatsu Beach, how many times will I see the aged trees at the castle ruins?

When I sat quietly on the sandy beach, the sea-blowing wind turned eastward—ah.

Like something solitary—the sand before my eyes bathed in sunlight—there sat a fly.

The western sea reflecting clouds from the setting sun glowed bronze.

September 5th: Crossed to Mitsushima with Takaya Hiroshi.

The Matsuura River moon glows crimson—could even the sorrows of this mortal world be concealed?

September 6th: One Man, Two Geisha

In the neighboring room, the man and woman conversed; I must not say “how envious.”

September 8th: Sandy Beach

A rainbow rises beautifully—ah! How pitiful it seems, like some jest.

As days pass dwelling on my illness, even this shore's sand appears lifeless—ah.

Digging sand before me—how sorrowful to witness the spider bearing away the bee.

The wind sweeping across Watatsumi aches—shall I enter Izube Mountain again?

September 10th: Talked with Takaya Hiroshi about the journey we had made together.

My friend sits by my pillow, shedding tears as if to part.

September 11th

Departed Karatsu at 9:56 a.m., parted ways with Takaya Hiroshi at Saga Station at 12:30 p.m.
At the railway track, I boarded a rickshaw and arrived at Koyu Onsen in Ogi District at dusk.

Having been devotedly nursed through my illness—here by the sea, how many nights have I slept?

When I think of you who remained by my side all this time without leaving, tears flow.

Leaving Watatsumi's sea behind, I now ascend toward the mountain stream's source.

Koyu Onsen

September 11th: Lodged at Ōgiya in Koyu Onsen, Minamiyama Village, Ogi District, Saga Prefecture, until October 3rd.

The loneliness nurtured by this fleeting world’s illness—here at the source of Kawakami River.

Even while soaking in the lukewarm hot spring—could I forget your kindness?

Distant clouds as they drift afar, nearby clouds as they draw near—the wild geese call across to one another, even their wingbeats audible now.

By the clear river in Saga’s Agata, I seclude myself—let people not know.

The pitiful sight of a mantis devouring a bee—I saw this for the first time in the Saga foothills.

Basking in sunlight, I sit on a riverside stone; red dragonflies already dart about.

When I come desolate and alone, even the rush of mountain stream waters soaks into my heart.

On the opposite bank of this river—what flowers have begun blooming pale white?

Crossing the low mountain, I now watch the valley stream’s sand flow.

I cherish the crimson sap oozing from the cedar tree as I did in childhood.

Red spider lilies cluster and bloom; these flowers meant to blossom still remain enclosed.

Leaning against a stone by the mountain stream, basking in sunlight—will my illness heal?

When the mountain stream's water carried its scent, profoundly the autumn wind blew.

The smoke tree's crimson leaves at this mountain's base stood vivid - autumn deepens still through their hurried blaze.

Locusts born unnoticed through passing days raised fleeing sounds when I walked their way.

Having caught cold, I lay abed all day; through my room's ceiling beam a lone snake made its way.

In this house, someone suddenly fell ill; I tended to them past midnight.

To a distant journey—the village festival in Saga’s foothills with its spirited sumo—I came to witness (21st, Matsumori Shrine).

Though autumn had come to the mountains, the air remained sultry; clouds billowed and lowered themselves (23rd, Thunderstorm).

Thinking that in Tokyo this day held the Shiki Memorial Poetry Gathering, I walked along the riverside (26th).

At last autumn deepened in the mountain gorge; morning’s thunder roared.

The thunderclouds of this noonday cleared away, and now the autumn night’s moon began to rise.

Today again I enter the mountains and gather ginkgo nuts beneath the trees as if at play.

While ill, lying down and rising through autumn’s threshold—today again I chew gravel in my rice, ah how pitiful.

Having come here, I have seen many snakes; though I had always feared them.

Having grown close-hearted, I buy chestnuts not yet turned golden in this village.

Days have passed since I quit tobacco—this dawn I saw a dream of smoking.

Passing days cherishing my own life—the moon has come to shine upon Kawakami.

Autumn deepens in the desolate mountains; in Hosokawa’s narrow stream, sand flows ceaselessly.

Fish dwelling in clear Kawakami have fed on water plants in the midday heat.

When walnut fruits are still soft in their season—will my illness now heal?

Fearing the bees swarming by the river, how many times have I passed through this place?

Though I deem not autumn waters sorrowful to part, in the deep crevice I ought to have seen.

As morning light first shone upon the facing mountain, the valley too stood revealed—ah.

The scent of early rice faintly lingers to both sides as I walk along Koyu's frost-covered path.

As I gaze unexpectedly, here I remain; the green chestnuts are illuminated by a nearby electric lamp.

Red spider lilies have continued blooming by the riverbank—shall I leave now while my illness heals?

Mr. Ono Gohei passed away at the age of ninety-one; having tenaciously clung to his vital roots, he lived a long life.

Tales of him engaging in contests while traveling—such vigorous anecdotes were not unusual for this old man.

Mourning Yamaguchi Yoshi: Sent for the October 17th Memorial Poetry Gathering at Ōmuta Jōshin-in

The loneliness when I heard the news of your death while dwelling deep in a mountain's narrow pass

Let me recall those bygone days—you sang sorrowful songs of the world's true face.

May some of those harsh labor songs shine in people's hearts.

Nagasaki

October 3rd. Left Koyu in the morning; returned to Nagasaki in the afternoon.
How profoundly I feel having neglected all things.

Having returned to Nagasaki and met a friend—how sorrowful this heart, rare and distant.

I went to meet the principal as well; naturally spoke of my illness in a low voice.

Having lain ill on my journey, today I have come upon the Suwa Festival.

Calming my heart as I sit in my room, the sound of flutes from the divine festival reaches me from the street.

Having stacked writings in my room and traveled, when I hold them, marks form on my hands—ah.

October 9th. I climbed the hill above Suwa Shrine with Mr. Saburo Nakamura.

Suwa Festival, Second Day

On this hill overlooking Nagasaki’s harbor—since you too lie ill, your breath comes labored.

Rokumaiita

October 11th

I arrived at Kaneyu in Rokumaiita, Kiba Village, Nishiurakami, Nishisonogi District.
I had come to convalesce through hot spring bathing.

I had come to the depths of Urakami and pitied the river flowing from the gorge.

While gazing at cross-marked graves, I passed along Urakami Road—when shall I look back upon this path?

All day long in the hot spring scented with decaying leaves, I bathed to calm my heart—for my own sake.

I encountered elderly women suffering from rheumatism and exchanged few words with them throughout the day.

Every morning at the same hour, Inada Michiji and others ran off to school.

While startled by the many red mamushi snakes by the roadside, I circled around Nishiurakami and came.

At the mountain’s base, clinging like shadows—the impoverished Christian village I too have seen.

How poignant such graves were—"Dominica Kakinomoto Sugi’s Grave – Passed at Age Nine"

“Doname Matsushita Hisa’s Grave – Passed at Age Ninety-Two”
They had been believers who ended their days.

A book titled *Hōgō Shōryaku* for followers sat solitary within the temple hall.

I climbed up to the small hall and sat gazing at the scattered homes of believers.

At this inn resided a girl who had come from Shimabara; she carried the evening lamp for me.

Lighting a lamp that emitted oily smoke, I read the Sanka-shū until all sounds ceased.

The master of this house had gone out of his way to buy sashimi in Nagasaki and made me eat it.

Thinking that crossing here would lead me to emerge into Nagasaki's western mountains, I walked on for a while.

Facing the open valley, I sat there thinking of Nagasaki’s harbor.

Kohama

October 15th. Departed Rokumaiita.

The girl carried my luggage.
I departed Nagayo at 10:40 AM; arrived at Kohama at 1:00 PM and checked into Yanagikawa Inn.
I met student Tateishi Genji who had come for convalescence.

Since hearing the morning ship’s deep horn，I did not think of the mountain gorge either.

Two people came to the embankment shade and basked in the light; one was a student I taught.

The crimson flowers of the cactus by the sea’s edge，bathed in light，radiated vitality.

On the sandy beach，a foreigner lay alone sprawled out，while Japanese maidens played and frolicked.

Bathing in the Shiowayuki Hot Spring，tonight I shall sleep—in this fleeting moment，I think my illness may heal.

The gulls now fly without hesitation; I, in this envious flesh—

While watching the flag flutter upon the Japanese ship, I exchanged tales of its legend between us.

The ships that ply Nagasaki’s Motogi Port blew their steam whistles booming.

As the sinking sun’s crimson light wavers, the rock thrush’s voice too is surely heard.

To the sunlit spot today too I’ve come—were I to dwell on what lies ahead, how sorrowful it would be indeed.

Having come here, I’ve made watching sunsets my custom; the sea’s sunset too must not be forgotten.

Moriyoshi Tairai of Kohama—the thoughtful gestures made for my sake, I shall long remember.

The Shiowayuki Hot Spring at the mountain’s base near the spa—without ceasing shall I praise it.

Ureshino

October 20th. Departed Kohama at 00:22, arrived at Sonogi; arrived at Ureshino in the evening.

How delightful to see sumo matches for entertainment in Sonogi Shrine’s precincts while traveling.

We also paid a visit to Yutokuin Inari Shrine; speaking of having come on a distant journey.

At the Ureshino travel lodging—the calligraphy by Elder Nakabayashi Godai’s hand!

The battalion that crossed over this mountain and advanced halted their drills and bathed in the hot springs for a night.

In the transparent welling waters, manifold thoughts entwine without end.

Having come to the small shrine’s forest in this village and remained silent—yet my heart finds no fulfillment.

My illness—just as I think it finally heals—the Ureshino mountains deepen into autumn.

Nagasaki

October 26th.
Departed Ureshino at 8:40 AM, Sonogi at 10:43 AM; arrived in Nagasaki at 12:30 PM.

October 28th. I resumed duties at the medical school.

Coming to my hospital room, I sat grieving the red water flowing from the tap.

November 1st.

Professor Mutō Chōzō had informed me of the Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament at Ōura Cathedral; however, minding my health, I did not attend.

All day today, afflicted by stomach pain while lying abed, I found myself unable to go to the sacred gathering.

November 5th.

Nagaoka Kansai passed away in Tokyo on October 8th at the age of forty; he was interred at Sugamo Shinshō-ji Temple in Tokyo.
Kansai was one year older than I.

When I calmed my heart in Nagasaki, could I have imagined I would hear eternal sorrow?

Memories of Mitsusuji-chō in Asakusa—are they like bubbles? Like passing light?

November 14th. I visited Shuntoku-ji Temple with Mr. Tsuchiya Bunmei.

The visage of Ōbaku's eminent monk—yesterday I recalled it, today too it comes to mind.

A large wooden fish painted red hangs; the monks strike it when taking meals.

On the hanging plaque, the four characters "Sea Does Not Raise Waves" stand solemnly aged.

Siebold Narutaki School Site

Year after year, Utsutsu's fragrant autumn grasses—dew and frost have fallen, leaving them desolate.

Sitting by the stone wall, things of ages past come to mind—how vividly they revive!

When I look upon the well where multitudes once vied to study, that time returns.

The banana leaves too gradually tear; with autumn deepening as I think, all grows quiet.

The eastward spread of Western learning took root there, and young scholars all vied.

Persimmon leaves scatter in beautiful hues; might the Dejima people too have come to cherish them?

While listening to Narutaki’s roaring falls, they must have awakened daily to Western learning.

Kōfuku-ji, Fukushū-ji, calligraphy and painting albums

At Fukushū-ji Temple, I visited the grave of Kurisaki Dōki: Kenshō-in Dōki Shōgen Koji.

The festival having passed, sunlight illuminates—the mountains of tranquil Nagasaki have donned their colors.

November 21st. Mr. Tsuchiya departed Nagasaki.
In the evening, a gathering was held in Tatsumi.

At Kuregure’s house, the yellow tsuwabuki flowers seem to invite me and another.

November 22nd. I walked through Urakami Village with Master Painter Hyakusui Hirafuku.

The women of Urakami formed lines and carried loads; their calls reached even here.

On the hill where the white-shining Kurosu stood, when people passed by, it appeared large.

The way of life of the Urakami women differed; the laments of Western lands might well stir.

The people of Nagasaki had all named it Kurosu Mountain and continued to see it until now.

On the sloping field, the hoes of the Urakami people at work glistened.

The Urakami people made the oxen carry field burdens on their backs; they did not sing worldly songs.

The smoke tree leaves are about to turn densely dyed crimson; an evening wind blows from Kurosu Mountain.

November 23rd. I visited Nagasaki Library with Master Painter Hyakusui and viewed Nanban historical materials.

Having read a portion of the Morrison Collection’s Myōe Shōnin poetry anthology, I contemplated matters.

November 24th. I walked through the streets with Master Painter Hyakusui.

Many prisoners sent from Siberia gathered in the town yesterday and again today.

By Ōura’s roadside where Louvre banknotes were sold, prisoners of war stood lingering.

A prisoner of war attempting to return to Czechoslovakia committed suicide in the shadow of a mountain rock.

By the graves in Teramachi too, the Czechoslovak prisoners of war clustered and passed their time.

Welcoming close friends and speaking of personal matters until the night deepened—(Master Hirafuku)

From Nagasaki

The poems composed on various occasions from autumn to winter this year were published in the Osaka Mainichi Shimbun and Osaka Asahi Shimbun.

The true sun, crimson, sank westward beyond the harbor—now profoundly did the evening glow linger.

From the harbor a loud flute sounded—even in that moment, at my feet a cricket’s voice.

With a heart not filled with the path, I descended Kirishitan Slope where the setting sun shone.

Oxen carrying salt crossed the eastern mountains; I saw they had not yet gone far.

How desolate to see the light shining all day upon the daikon field in the mountain’s shade.

On the terraced fields of the mountain overlooking the harbor, there was someone living who seemed to have just eaten lunch.

The rain-cleared harbor at last took on mercury's quiet hue in the evening dusk.

The two friends had finally returned home; with my tense heart now relaxed, I drank water. (Mr. Tsuchiya · Mr. Hirafuku)

In a dirty house in Chinatown, even my eating of black-skinned preserved eggs was no passing matter.

I had been ill since early summer, but having recovered, I saw white frost had fallen.

Your duties must have kept you busy; however, were you guarding that strained heart of yours? When I gaze upon Nagasaki’s harbor, do not find it strange that my heart softens and grows calm.

While turning my back on Semenov’s anchored gunboat, I hastened.

Having recovered from illness, I have come here—shall I walk alone through the quietness of fallen leaves before my eyes?

Even in Nagasaki frost has fallen—I find no pathos in ordinary things.

Cold rain pours even upon Nagasaki’s mountains—has winter now reached midwinter?

Even the mind gripped by madness’s paranoid delusions—how sorrowful—as winter deepens.

Prisoners of Ungarn gathered and walked through Nagasaki’s streets as the setting sun glowed red.

Ah, though you may not see it as poignant—cold rain falls on Teramachi’s high stone walls.

The natto sent from Sendai in Michinoku—eating it calms the heart.

On Urakami Road where the white cross on the mountain comes into view, the frost has thawed.

Having bought bean sprouts and frozen tofu, my heart races as I intend to make soup.

Walking along Nagasaki harbor's shore—how poignant was Pignatel.

Though it is a melancholy evening, thinking of Pignatel's sleeping quarters, my heart may be soothed.

December 5th

In the morning, I visited Ōura Cathedral with Professor Mutō Chōzō and Master Painter Mikami Tomoharu; in the afternoon, I visited Old Pignatel.

In the sleeping quarters, placing a vermilion box pillow beside the bundled pillow—how poignant.

On this very day when winter rain falls—visiting Pignatel's house—things that seeped deep into my being.

Aged and utterly alone, Pignatel still rose and retired as though steeped in solitude.

Year’s End

This illness—praying for healing, I journeyed on and on through mountains and rivers until the year’s end came.

As the day of leaving Nagasaki at last drew near, I devoted my heart to a modest paper.

Though I would enter Nagasaki’s Christmas cathedral twice, it was not meant to be for me.

As the year drew to a close, together with my wife we tended to our health and prepared to journey to the land of Tsukushi.

Poetry Gathering

Welcome Poetry Gathering for Mr. Tsuchiya Bunmei: November 17th at Mokichi’s Residence, Theme "Slope"

Over the eastern pass crossed a single ox; its quiet gait I came to see (Nishiyama Observation).

Welcome Poetry Gathering for Mr. Hirafuku Hyakusui: November 24th at Nagasaki Prefectural Library, Theme "Harbor"

A ship departing the harbor on this cloudy day—how sorrowful—as smoke rises.

Taisho 10th Year (1921)

Journey to Kyushu

December 30, Taisho 9 (1920): Departed Nagasaki; lodged in Kumamoto. The following day, December 31: concluded sightseeing in Kumamoto; that night lodged at Jurin Hot Springs.

January 1, Taisho 10 (1921): Arrived in Kagoshima from Jurin Hot Springs.
One-night stay.

The characters Hideyori wrote at five years old remain to this day; I too revere them.

Viewed from Kumamoto's outskirts—Onsen-ga-dake where hot springs dwell—no ordinary mountain.

At the hot spring's flank where light grows dim; clouds veil themselves.

On Kumagawa River's banks they gather to play—children born in this narrow place here.

Right bank's winter grasses still green; from morning's Kumagawa River mist ascends.

Lush green waterweeds sway riverside; I stand here though it be winter.

In January's midwinter heart—ink-black tadpoles cluster; ah.

Shiraga-dake and Ichifusa-yama parted asunder; the train proceeded through the Satsuma border.

From Ōhata Station, the route became a loop line; within the tunnel crossing Yatake, the descent began.

Sakurajima loomed glossy-black; the traces where molten rock had flowed struck terror.

My wife and I, having toured Kagoshima’s famous sights by rickshaw, were weary.

Though my friends were here, I sent no hurried missive to you.

I climbed up to Shiroyama, listened in detail to the aftermath of the fierce battle, and departed.

This morning when Kaimon appeared vividly clear—clouds hung over Sakurajima.

Ōsumi—land where mountains stood majestic; upon winter-dried peaks, the morning sun struck.

Kirishima, through morning's clarity, wears white clouds gently—as if drifting;
Kirishima stands simply stern here—when south winds swept it clear.

January 2–3: Stayed at Kanda Bridge Inn in Miyazaki at night; on the 3rd, visited Miyazaki Shrine.

Having come to worship at Miyazaki’s sacred shrine, I bow deeply together with my wife.

Winter rain falls on gravel—walking in the shrine’s forecourt, the sound of my shoes.

Enviously hearing those voices, the traveling merchant forms bonds at every destination.

January 3

At 3:00 PM, we arrived at Aoshima and lodged at Hirose Ryokan; Porter (54 years old), a teacher at Fifth High School, was staying here.

Waves come crashing, lonely; where southern trees grow thick, their shadows deep.

Because there exists a warm ocean current—such luxuriance has come to be.

At the inn, a foreigner named Porter was lodging too and could be seen drinking Japanese sake.

When I looked upon Aoshima’s groves, sorrowful seemed the southern ocean’s profusion.

A single seed adrift from southern waters yearned to know of my distant era.

A faint light rising from the sea—the color of Hyūga's dawn land—ah!

Having lodged a night at Aoshima, I saw crimson in the east—ah, my distant age.

The east dyed crimson as I awoke to dawn's hues in Hyūga Province.

The madder-red sky stretching over the Sea of Watatsumi—by two o'clock had clouded.

January 4 Departing for the return journey

Kirishima stands solemn, while clouds drift over the distant woodland of the plateau.

The ashen color’s mysterious hue, bathed in sunlight—this high mountain I gaze upon yet never tire.

Having come traveling at the start of the new year, it was as if accompanying Takachiho’s peak.

Since leaving Aoidake Station, I listened to the story of Inoshishi no Toko.

January 5

Kurume: "Fifth year of Kansei (1793), Year of the Water Ox, June 27; Native place: Hosoya Village, Nitta District, Kōzuke Province; Grave of Takayama Hikokurō Masayuki."

At Ueno Ryokan, an Araragi poetry gathering was held.
I visited Bairein-ji.

At Henjō-in in Kurume, I paid respects at the grave of "Shōin I Haku Koji."

Longing for the Age of the Gods—you who perished in Tsukushi Province.

All night long we discussed poems without satiety; the morning rooster crowed as crimson light spread.

With eleven friends from Kyushu, I composed poems with fervor until night dawned.

At Bairein-ji there was a plaque reading "Purple Sea Zen Grove"—this Buddhist grove embracing a valley.

From the room at Sanshōken, looking down into the valley below—a monk came to sweep pine needles.

I heard tell indeed of white sails seen descending from Hita on the Chikugo River—a story of such atmospheric charm.

January 6: Dazaifu, Kanzeon-ji Temple, Tofurō Ruins, Takeo Hot Springs

I saw the remains of Kanzeon-ji Temple and Tofurō Ruins while making casual conversation as we passed through.

Nagasaki

January 31

A farewell party for Mr. Okuda was held at Eike.
Attendees included members of the Library Discussion Society; besides the guest of honor, there were Messrs. Nagami Tokutarō, Masuda Renkichi, Tanida Sadao, Hayashi Genkichi, Ōba Yō, and Mizutani Yasutsugu.

As we dwelled endlessly on myriad matters, tonight we grew drunk together.

The southern land lies abundant; as morning breaks, may the heavenly sun's color illuminate you.

February 3

Mr. Keiichi Okuda departed as Kagoshima Prefectural Library Director.
I regretted that hindrances prevented me from seeing him off.

This evening I think of regrets, yet you depart far away—regrets that do not return.

February 10 Reflections

Spring light came toward Murayama from Nagasaki's harbor and shone.

When I thought how fleeting the bustling world was—even from that bustling world would I part.

Having come to Nagasaki already three full years, several friends remained unforgettable.

By the harsh epidemic wind, had the three nearby not finally passed away?

Even as I crossed yonder mountain at Yagami, with thoughts still lingering, I prepared to depart.

March 14

Snow fell heavily; I made rounds to bid farewell at various houses.
In the evening, a farewell poetry gathering for Mokichi was held at Nagasaki Library.

As I resolved to leave Nagasaki and awakened in the dawn's darkness, my heart grew desolate.

Having departed from Nagasaki, I wondered—do people hear the long echo of the ship’s whistle?

Snow fell in wild disorder as day darkened—the harbor’s sounds came reaching me.

March 15: I composed a poem for the Medical College Staff Dining Hall.

From the harbor of departing spring, the ship’s whistle sounds—may I recall its lingering echo.

Departure from Nagasaki, Eastward Journey

March 16.

I departed Nagasaki at 11 PM.
Many seniors and close friends came to see me off.
I resided in Nagasaki for a total of five years, amounting to exactly three years and three months.
Maeda Takeshi and Etō Yoshinari rode in the same car with me, and on the way we met Mr. Moji Yoshio.

March 17

I arrived in Hakata at 5 AM—Sakae-ya Ryokan.

The two university students, Messrs. Aoki Gisaku and Kaneko Shingo, came.
I visited Professors Sakaki and Kubo and observed the Otolaryngology Department and Psychiatry Department.
I dined together with Dr. Yakubo and his wife in the evening.

I bid farewell to all and departed, yet past midnight my heart could not endure.

In a room that didn’t feel the spring chill, there were discussions about a temple in Nagasaki and Nagatsuka Setsu.

In this room filled with the warmth of gracious hearts, many cats were kept and played.

March 18

Departed Hakata at 9:42 AM; arrived at Kokura at 11:42 AM. Viewed the cityscape, then visited Enmei-ji Temple and strolled through the park—the Kiheitai graves, local specialty oyaki mochi.

Through Kokura where spring still clings cold, I journey—remembering Dr. Ōgai.

The park’s red earth—graves of the Kiheitai war dead—Enmei-ji Temple’s spring carries the sea tide’s sound.

March 18

Departed Kokura at 1 PM; arrived in Beppu at 4:42 PM. I had come to Beppu once before in the summer of Taisho 8.
I toured the town and visited Dr. Torigata, director of the sanatorium; he was my university alumnus.
I viewed the Oita Exhibition.

The warm seaside town already has chrysanthemum greens being sold; the haze lies distant.

Birdsong mingles with the intermittent cries of the sea in this port town; I pass through the place where hot springs well up for the second time.

March 20.

At 2 PM departed Beppu aboard the Benimaru-maru; landed at Takahama; arrived in Dōgo by train; took the waters and stayed one night.
March 21.
Sightseeing in Matsuyama (by rickshaw); boarded ship from Mitsu Port; landed at Tadotsu; proceeded to Kotohira for one night's stay; visited shrine.

When I bathe in Dōgo's ancient hot spring—from amidst the sand grains it seems to well up.

As I cross the vast ocean let us worship this deity together my wife and I.

March 22.
From Kotohira to Takamatsu; I went sightseeing (by rickshaw) at Ritsurin Garden and Yashima.
I departed Takamatsu at 4 PM and arrived in Okayama at 7 PM, where I stayed one night.
March 23.

I visited Professors Yamamiya and Shida at the Sixth High School and called on Professor Araki (Aotarō) at the Medical College.
Within the city (by rickshaw): Okayama Castle, Kōrakuen Garden.

In this garden where cranes play quietly—beside them, one grey crane chick.

Without delay they must have attacked here—the waves now shine upon ancient battles' aftermath.

I passed through Okayama Gobanchō today—the place where Motoyoshi had eagerly composed poems.

March 23.

I departed Okayama and arrived in Kobe at dusk; Mr. Nakamura Kenkichi came to meet me.
At Mitsuwa, I ate Kobe beef.
I stayed at Mr. Nakamura’s residence by Kōroen Riverside.
Eldest daughter Yoshiko (five years old); second daughter Atsue (three years old).

After so long meeting you, I rejoice that my illness has healed.

What profound peace! Since morning, two of my friend’s young children before me.

March 24.

Osaka.
Visited the University Forensic Medicine Department (Mr. Nakata Atsurō) and Psychiatry Department classroom (Mr. Koseki Mitsutaka), saw the Naniwa Hanaya Monument, walked along Shinsaibashi Street, and viewed Dōtonbori (Bunraku puppet theater). In the evening at Morien Tenrui, Hanada Daigorō and Mr. Kanō Akira joined others for dinner.
Stayed at Mr. Nakamura’s residence.

From March 25th to 27th.
I viewed Nara under Mr. Nakamura’s guidance.
I also met with Chief Abbot Saeki of Hōryūji Temple.
Rain fell.

Then I went to Yamato and toured historic sites related to the Manyoshu poems. I arrived in Kyoto in the evening. I checked into Fujioka Ryokan.

March 28.
Uji, Phoenix Hall, Byodoin Temple, Uji River Flower Garden, Sakuma Shōzan Memorial Site, Kamo River, Honno-ji Temple, Imperial Palace, Karasuma-dori Street, Horikawa Canal, Arashiyama Tram, Ninna-ji Temple's Mountain, Pagoda, Nyoirin Kannon, Great Bamboo Grove, Hermit's Cave, Rinzai School Head Temple Tenryu-ji, Hozu River, Katsura River, Kinkaku-ji (Rokuon-in), Daigokuden Hall (Heian Shrine).
Fujioka Ryokan

Busy you—all day for my sake—
endlessly guiding me through ancient mountains and rivers.

Ah! Ah! Your kindness permeates
this yearning heart—through mountains and rivers we saw.

March 29.

At 10:40 AM I departed Kyoto; got off at Maibara Station; and paid my respects to Priest Ryōō at Banba Rengeji Temple.
I met Mr. Ishikawa Takamichi and Mr. Higuchi Sōtarō.

When jet-black night descended, he urged us: "Partake of yudofu as keepsake."

Through the night I endured bone-deep cold; at dawn's light, thin ice glimmered in the temple garden.

At this temple, Priest Ryōō—with evident delight—roasted yuba and offered it to me.

March 30.

I departed Maibara by express train and headed to Tokyo.
In the train car, I met three professors: Sakaki, Wada, and Onodera.
The professors were heading to Tokyo to attend an academic conference.

April 1.
I attended the Japan Neurological Society and Dr. Shūzō Kure's celebration commemorating twenty-five years as a university professor (Ueno Seiyōken).

Celebratory Verses

Celebratory Verses for Professor Shūzō Kure’s Twenty-Five Years of Service at the University, Along with Sincere Expressions of Sentiment (Buddha’s Footstone Poem Style) – Twenty-Five Chapters

Upon Nagasaki’s harbor embraced by mountain ranges comes spring light shining—and divine radiance—

In Nagasaki I spend day and night without cease—to you of the Eastern Land I yearn and yearn evermore.

As winter ends and spring draws near—my heart wavers without rest—guided by affection that never ceases.

Though I dwell at Tsukushi's farthest reach—how could I not praise and revere the mentor of old?

Healers may crowd like spring grasses, yet that master stands apart—for the manifest world's sake, for this present age's sake.

Brimming with fortune, that master's power grows ever renewed—your life endures.

When I ponder how sorrowful are the afflicted, this lonely heart turns to you—O grant them salvation, I pray.

In this land of Yamato—you, my lord and mentor—while Pinel and Conolly dwell beyond our shores,

Though Ling Shu deems it madness—we vowed never to name it so—for all who suffer,

Twenty-five years beyond twenty have passed—radiance blesses these fields of celebration—auspicious light,

Through years guarding the afflicted—your noble beard now whitened—how pure its essence shines,

This silver beard gleams anew—may fresh blessings multiply—your life endures as nature wills.

The afflicted—how sorrowful they are—You who protect them stand noble and revered; how noble this day!

For you through whom family and followers ever prosper—how could we not celebrate these boundless new blessings?

Three years have passed since coming to Nagasaki—now I shall return to the Eastern Land's spring, to your presence.

While idling through ten years spent, and thinking how a decade slipped by—I celebrate you.

When I was a fourth-year middle school student—was it then?—I went to buy Seishin Keibi in Ogawa-machi.

While beholding all these afflicted souls in their pitiful states, I think of you and offer reverence.

Though I deem what I possess to be meager, guarding the afflicted, I shall pass through this world as it is.

The many who received teachings have gathered to surround their mentor on this day, offering words of celebration.

People of this transient world who heed not the sorrow of the afflicted—awaken! All ye people, rouse yourselves!

May your heart—broad and generous—be adorned with an unfading august garland; may prosperity be bestowed and youth ever renewed.

What joy that we were born into the same world—to our mentor I offer up this reverence.

May the villagers’ hearts incline—perform the sake celebration with auspicious words offered up! With abundant wine, pure saké—

Like Amaterasu’s radiance, like Tsukuyomi’s shining—may you abide everlastingly in happiness.

Return to the Capital

From December of Taisho 6 when I was appointed to Nagasaki until March of Taisho 10 when I returned to the capital—a span of three full years and three months, totaling five years inclusive.

Having returned to Tokyo, how sorrowful were the newspaper articles about murders.

As if listening calmly to secret whispers of the bedroom—in the town’s night, frogs croaked.

Having returned from Nagasaki and looked—how sorrowful were the cows no longer passing through Ginza Crossing.

When day after day of early summer rains fall upon the city, my kidneys have already weakened.

The psychology of trends should not be governed by the concept of imitative possession in summer metropolises.

In radiant spring light bathing the asylum, Ashihara Kinjirō at last grew old.

Early summer rain falls splashing down—I think of those who harbor murderous hearts.

My heart remains unsettled as crimson eleagnus berries are sold—summer has come.

I was wandering through Ginza when I came across a woman leading a bulldog.

Nagasaki's noon-quiet Chinese temple—when I recall them, white crape myrtle flowers.

In early morning at Hibiya Park, a lone laborer strokes swollen feet.

There is a person riding a horse and going—perhaps going as far as Tamagawa area in evening.

Even the Yagibushi of Asakusa grows mournful—a hundred days have dawned and duskened in the capital.

I encountered a woman tending to the afflicted—face radiant.

During my days living in Nagasaki, I lamented the insect-ravaged Kinkai-shū.

I planted tomatoes in the garden and rejoice at their delicate flowers blooming.

Today again something weighs on my mind; I sit scrawling on moth-eaten papers, yet—

Recently there have again been thieves killing foreigners; do not censure my unsettled heart.

Under the tatami mats I scattered naphthalene; fleas cowered in fear—I perished.

Miscellaneous Verses

Tokyo Araragi Poetry Gathering

The days when winds blew through restless hearts had passed; returning now, red buds emerged.

At the Gravesite

By the graves at Fumon-in Temple in Kameido, a water-blue channel still remained.

From Yamagata

Tsukuyomi’s mountain—how I long for it—dappled snow gleaming in spring sunlight, reluctant to melt.

May 9

Bursting buds of trees not yet harmonized—in Michinoku Mountains there remains only water now.

Deep in the valley, the whiteness—the Azuma mountain range’s snowmelt waters surge.

Michinoku—spring still cold—the loneliness of a river emerging through distant pale valleys.

Hometown

The crimson of sorrow—spring deepens,
pasqueflowers bloom;
I have come to this field's edge.

With a heart that thought itself alone I sat—
already the young silkworms
have fallen asleep.

May 12

I led Yūki Aisōka through the woodland field.

In the mountain shadow where sunlight illuminated rice field waters—how faintly life’s pulse beats.

Having returned to Michinoku, my hometown, I dig pasqueflowers at spring’s mountain edge now.

In the mountain-shadowed quiet field, two of us sit plucking thinly sprouted bracken.

Michinoku’s spring light clear and refreshing—through this mountain shadow flows water’s sound.

We having come to mountain shadows—how lonely swim leeches in shallow water.

Enclosed by trees—this spring field where insects leap, ah such peace dwells here!

June 16 The silkworms raised by women

To deem it fleeting brings loneliness—the silkworms I raised have secluded themselves in yellow cocoons.

July 6

I visited Dr. Jinbo Kōtarō at the gastrointestinal hospital and then received an examination from Dr. Irizawa Tatsukichi.

Alone in my chamber of contemplation, I hear the dull and weighty sound of the thoroughfare.

Having recorded that sweat flowed ceaselessly today, I shall also note the matter of my illness.

Landscapes, Humans, Insects, Fish

One Night

The train ran through Kai-gane; in a moment's space, whitely appeared the riverbed—such loneliness.

With a quiet riverbed, the river flowing through the narrows I glimpsed momentarily.

In the mountain shadow, a lonely river flowed, now and then surging white.

The blowing wind was already cold; the train approached the distant foothills of Yatsugatake.

Along the heaven-traversing sun’s slanting path through Shinano Road—on the mountain plateau, a small crow cried.

Should I stop my feet on the plateau and gaze upon the mountains of Hida's border where clouds lurked?

The Fujimi Plateau, where sky of deepest clarity converged, fell into dusk.

At dawn's first light, still dark—awake, I heard birdsong resounding.

Having hung a mosquito net, I slept alone; at dawn's first light, the cold water seeped into my teeth.

In the cool clarity of Shinano Highlands' morning awakening, fallen leaves settled in water scooped to the mouth.

In the Forest

In the stillness of a deep mountain forest, a cicada chased by a bird fell.

The purple of bellflowers deepened; I came to Fujimiga-hara.

Though the pine wind makes its sound, the pine wind has grown faint and distant.

The valley bottom lies chillingly desolate; beneath the trees' darkness, my whistle echoes.

The heavenly sun gathers in the gaps of the pine forest and finally illuminates the lonesome moss.

By Lamplight (1)

Under the lamplight, desolate I sit and stretch out my swollen legs—ah.

The heart that thinks to love someone reaches its utmost—I think of the friend who indeed spoke to me.

In the deep mud of Lake Suwa dwelled clams—I ate them through a friend’s kindness.

In cool and clear Shinano Province, weary-legged under the lamplight, I have boiled rice bran.

In Takahara’s quietly deepening dusk each evening, insects come to cling to the lamplight.

By Lamplight (2)

Though the world beyond my window remains unlit by moonlight, I will extinguish the lamp and now sleep alone.

Though I thought it a quiet mountain plateau, someone died from touching an electric current.

The moonlight had not yet cast its light; white clouds appeared sunken deep into the valley.

Having gone to Awa's seaside for seawater bathing, my young child must have fallen asleep.

Having finished dinner early, tonight I thought of my wife—though I knew not why.

When I eat Lake Suwa's pond snails, I remember my youthful days in Michinoku.

Thinking night had deepened early—at this mountain hut's lamplight, insects met their end.

This mortal form—for its transient nature must we lament; how poignant the mountain river's sound!

A tattoo-covered corpse said to have floated in Sumida River—this news too seeped into me through the mountain's late night.

In deep mountain streams dwell what they call yamame trout; people catch and eat them.

Yatsugatake's undulating foothills stretched afar—crows hid themselves in white birch woods.

Plateau

While thinking of Tateshina as a sorrowful mountain, I entered the midst of the pine forest.

A cricket not yet begun to sing—on the soil’s edge emerges to play, this black cricket.

Before autumn is declared, born into being—a cricket flees beneath my feet.

Deeming the night sky autumnal—before my eyes, a firefly cast off light as it went.

The old path visible by the mountain stream’s edge grew intermittent and entered into the mountains.

Moonlit Night

The plateau’s moonlight left no shadow untouched; beneath fallen leaves, water let fall its sound.

Under the enduring moonlight’s glow, the autumn grasses’ flowers at my feet lay illuminated.

The valley bottom deep within holds echoing - Kamanashi River's sound steeped in moonlit solitude.

Though bearing likeness to autumn night's flawless moon - this dewy field of miscanthus where no bell crickets sing.

In Hida's sky gathers evening light - hues tranquil as breaking dawn.

In Hida's sky the heavenly sun sets; moonlight bathes evening glow's serene colors.

In the moonlit night where the sky clears and shines through, the sound of the mountain stream echoes from the depths.

Though I do not think to regret my life, the moonlight pierces through me.

Japanese Yew Berries

When I eat the crimson berries of the Japanese yew along Shinano roads, I long for father and mother.

Longing for the scent of early rice illuminated by evening light, I descended the mountain path.

Myriad flowers had begun to bloom at morning's approach; the bellflower—I too am such a flower.

With pity for the young mountain trout, as evening deepened, they crossed the Kamanashi River—ah.

The clustered kudzu flowers that bloomed at the mountain's edge—more poignant than wisteria's waves—ah.

Exhausted, I breathed in Kamanashi Valley's gloom where a cuckoo cried.

Kamanashi

In evening dusk, from Minamidani comes the turbid mountain stream—its scent I long for.

Occasional Short Verses

The Ninth Memorial Service for Master Sasacho - July 10th at Kameido Fumon-in Temple

It had been nine years since his passing, they said—lotuses now prepared to bloom in the temple pond.

Suwa Araragi Gathering - August 22nd at Kami-Suwa Jizō-ji Temple

In Fujimiga-hara where myriad plants bloom fragrantly morning and evening, I have come.

Suwa Araragi Gathering - September 3rd at Onsen-ji Temple

On this fulfilled day of welcoming the Child of the Sun, in Shinano's Fujimi Village I awoke.

Saitō Mokichi Europe Departure Farewell Poetry Gathering - October 9th at Higiri Jizō

My heart brimmed with gratitude—friends who endured this cold rainy day!

Overseas Travelogue in Verse

On October 26, Taisho 10th Year (1921), he departed Tokyo Station; on the 27th, Atsuta Maru set sail from Yokohama—he was honored by the send-off from various seniors and friends.
On the 28th, he arrived in Kobe; he went ashore and met friends.
He visited Kyoto and stayed at Fujioka Ryokan; spent one night at Mr. Kenkichi Nakamura’s residence.
At Rokkō Kurakuen; he spent one night at Rokkō Hotel.
November 1st; he set sail from Kobe.

November 2nd, Taisho 10th Year (1921); arrived at Moji; went ashore; visited Ganryū-jima; stayed at Banzairo in Shimonoseki and Sanyō Hotel.

With a heart quietly yearning for people of old, I crossed the winter harbor—ah. (Three Poems of Ganryū-jima)

My heart aches deeply—on this island, I think of one who cast away their life.

In a spare moment of my distant journey, I alighted here on this small island.

November 3rd.

At noon I departed Moji; Mr. Fujii Kōhei, Mr. Nara Shūji, and Ms. Yamaguchi Hatsuko saw me off.
The Genkai Sea’s waves ran high, causing the clock to fall behind by forty-eight minutes.
Most passengers became seasick.

November 5th; I visited Dr. Tonomiya, Director of Shanghai Fumin Hospital.

The sea’s surface grew calm as morning broke; it caused the clock to fall behind by forty-eight minutes.

The turbid crimson sea and the dark yet clear sea formed a boundary.

Junks' sails, their russet hues held high, crossed the mouth of the Yangtze River.

The manifold aspects of Shanghai—truly, they appeared as things of this mortal world.

“Japanese Prime Minister Hara Takashi Assassinated”—I had clippings from Shanghai newspapers reporting this. (6th)

November: Hong Kong

Beyond the mountains forming a chain of small cities that could be called serenely beautiful, China came into view.

Suddenly ascending the mountaintop, he looked down upon the city—its appearance not yet withered by winter.

To "no smoking" they had appended the annotation "不准食煙." Could one not consider the characters for "smoke-eating" to be well chosen?

In the teahouse hung a plaque reading "Qing Run Tian Cha" [Clear Moist Sweet Tea], its presence radiating through the space; a maiden drew near.

From the lonely coconut grove along the shore came the blended sound of tides meeting—their resonance carrying across the coast.

November 15th: Singapore

Until we could see the Southern Cross low in the sky, there we were upon the sea.

As I approached, thinking it resembled the forests of Japan, the coconut trees stretched on in dense black clusters.

While wrapping waistcloths around their waists, they pass by—men and women still elegant.

In the sweat-stained corner of my notebook, I inscribe "Brunboa."

We, over ten compatriots who stood before Johor Palace,

Amidst lush coconut palms, water buffalo gathered in a herd—when they move, causing people to shrink back in fear.

When I visited Tanjong Katong on the cape—Suraya’s fallen leaves and crickets’ voices.

They call the sun "Matahari" and worship it; also there is the inscription “Gantian Dadi.”

As the oxcart moved slowly, the sun set on the southern country’s greenery.

A sign reading “Japanese people [use] that entrance” stood there, and even the Yūshiju tree seemed sorrowful.

Mangrove trees had been planted at the crematorium; I scooped up ashes there with my hand and looked.

Futabatei Shimei was also cremated here.

In the Japanese cemetery, my heart that would embark on a distant journey found peace as I stayed there.

I entered the red path into the coconut grove; the sound of Singapore’s crickets.

Having come afar by ship, what brought sorrow was the clamor of Jaransupusaru’s night.

November 18th: Malacca

Over Yamamoto in Malacca hangs a mist—how sorrowful the haze of this warm land.

I sat on the flat land, thinking the clustered green might be willow trees.

The vestiges of the East India Company now remained, having had emitted the aura of the past.

Before the Memorial Tower for the War Dead, they had planted sena trees—for those who would come and go to see.

I met a Japanese dentist; he had modestly put up paper shoji screens and such.

Just now, cows fought, and one with a broken horn stood on the road.

As we beheld bananas growing in thick clusters before our very eyes, we seemed to be growing accustomed.

In the streets of Malacca, I too saw the lovely faces of wealthy women.

The tomb of St. Francis Xavier lies here in repose through passing time, in a land where snow does not fall.

Having left Malacca behind, I watched crimson hues permeate the stretched clouds of the setting sun.

While sweat streamed from my brow, I walked through the Chinese Cemetery and Malay Cemetery before returning.

November 19th: Penang

Before long, Penang drew near; at its farthest edge, white rain could be seen falling through the sky.

When he came to Penang where several cows with beautifully painted horns were passing by,

There was a temple where many snakes dwelled; the inscription “Ensenmugai” [Boundless Grace] knew no national borders.

Following the course of the Penang River upstream, I found rice paddies that brought Japan to mind.

Chinatown had extended even here, and those who naturally prospered had built up their wealth over generations.

Night fell and heavy rain began; even the floors where deck passengers had boarded remained dry.

November 24th: Ceylon Colombo

The sight of water buffalo gathered in the water was not one of limp frailty.

The water filled gently, reflecting light—had the rice planting now begun?

In this village, a blacksmith was forging steel; the hammer's clang resembled Japan's.

On the way to Kandy, I heard locals commanding elephants.

A solitary mountain stood towering high—could this be Mahabeliganga?

Reason being self-evident—on Ceylon's Mount Sakabuta, a waterfall cascaded.

In Colombo's streets, children spun tops—how joyous their play.

Could it be here that all the trees of the botanical garden boast leaves glistening with oil?

Having visited the Temple of the Sacred Tooth, I thought how bodhi tree seeds had reached even Japan.

A great white beast devouring a small beast—this they had carved.

Men holding aloft palm fronds approached; their yellow robes marked them all as Buddha’s disciples.

Through gaps in the endless coconut grove appeared the crimson of sunset clouds.

Having left a winter-cold land and journeyed far—when I see fireflies on Ceylon’s island

November 26th: Indian Ocean

In the Watatsumi Sea where even the afterglow was fading away, the lighthouse of Minikoi Island comes into view.

Two rainbows appeared, radiant—one hazy, the other clear.

Having crossed the Indian Ocean again today, people enjoyed yam soup and rice at the dining table.

The sea’s sky lies distant, yet from clustered clouds within comes thunder’s rumble.

Two rainbows stand in the sky—is not one right before my very eyes?

December 1st: Gulf of Aden; 3rd: Red Sea

The mountains overlooking Aden Bay spread wide, yet not one showed blue.

Sado Maru and another ship crossed paths; their whistles sounded high across the sea—a lofty moment.

At dawn's breaking, a sharp mountain came into distant view; voices proclaimed it Africa.

While holding its lingering afterglow at sky's edge, from this day forth the sun set over Africa.

At eight in the evening, we passed through Bab-el-Mandeb Strait perhaps, stars shining bright.

Perim Island drew near Arabia's shore, its lighthouse beginning to appear.

As the sun set in Africa, the front mountains darkened while sunlight lingered within clouds.

At dawn across the sea’s expanse spread a yellow haze—ah its beauty!

The ship that had entered Red Sea waters—those aboard gazed upward at sunrise to starboard yet found no satiety.

Once fiercely crimson clouds now faded pale as three stars of revelatory aspect came into view.

From the ship upon the Red Sea, Mount Katherin visible in the distance stands desolate.

The sea wind blows from the north, already cold; while the sun shines upon Mount Sinai.

December 7th: Egypt

From Suez via Genefé, Fayed, Nefisha, Esmailia, Abou-hammad, Zagazig, Benha and other stations to arrive at Cairo.
Viewed Cairo from the Pyramids, Sphinx and other sites, then proceeded to Port Said.
The only companions were the three gentlemen: Kamio, Yakushiji, and Shōji.

On the vast desert, military tents lined up and airplanes flew.

There were places where white clouds spread out over the hills, and it grew cool.

Over the sandy plain, stalks bearing pale穗s resemble what they call silvergrass.

How splendid to have come to Egypt and seen the camels proceeding in lines!

The lake called Bitterlake comes into view; what might the flock of small crows be doing as they fly?

Forming a village of earthen houses, women occasionally came out and looked this way.

Could that be a British military camp? Nearby, military horses were undergoing training.

A Mohammedan monk on the road performs sun worship.

No time to ward off swarming flies; I changed trains in a small town.

A white heron stood in the field; endless rows of corn stretched into the distance.

In the silent afternoon desert rose a triangular tower, empty of melancholy's hue.

I entered the pyramid’s interior and peered out at the external light—how utterly transformed!

The Sphinx was large—did the ancient people who built this find solace in their hearts?

Endlessly scorched by the sun blazing on the sand, today I have crossed the great Nile River.

In a distant land it was—today I stand by Egypt’s Nile River, how utterly transformed!

The Nile flows gently yet turbid—this great river, when shall I forget it?

Horse bells heard while in my morning bed revive my heart.

I drank jet-black Mocha; tomorrow I shall cross the cold sea.

December 9th: Mediterranean

This evening, the Japanese ship served sea bream sashimi and Nile River eel.

Mount Etna of Sicily—snow had fallen until it glittered beneath the heavenly sun.

Passing by the Italian town of Reggio while gazing upon it, there was also a riverbed glowing whitish.

Crossing the Strait of Messina, winter-withered desolate mountains came sharply into view.

Upon Stromboli's solitary peak rises visible smoke—does this sight seem familiar?

The three-masted Bark too has started appearing as we approach Corsica Island.

December 14th: Marseille

In the cold Marseille morning, white frost upon the tinplate roof lies visible—how poignant.

Having come to a temple solely atop the mountain—as I gaze out—it resembles the time when battle cries were raised.

December 15th: Paris

December 15th, 10:10 PM: Arrived at Gare de Lyon, Paris.
Lodged at Hôtel International.
Banks, embassies, the city center, Trocadéro, Eiffel Tower, Étoile, Louvre, Panthéon, Invalides, Luxembourg, Carnavalet Museum, Opéra, subway (Métro), and others.
Stayed until the 18th.

In Paris where dark fog enshrouded and never cleared, day after day I sought abundant things.

Having entered the Louvre, my soul aches so much that I cannot bring myself to leave.

The hero shall make their light eternal—never doubt this, even in dreams.

Ici repose un soldat français mort pour la patrie 1914-1918. I too bow down.

December 20th: Berlin

December 19th, 8:10 AM: Departed Gare du Nord for Berlin.
Mr. Koike, Mr. Kamio, and I rode in the same carriage.
December 20th: Arrived at Anhalter Bahnhof in Berlin.
Mr. Ishihara Fumio came to meet us.
We lodged at Hotel Alemannia.

From then on, I met with many compatriots starting with Mr. Maeda Shōsaburō.
December 27th: Traveled to Hamburg and met with Mr. Shigenobu Furukawa.
During the return train journey, my letter of credit was stolen, causing great difficulty; however, when it reached the embassy, the matter was settled through a payment of 3500 marks as recompense.

○31st: I spent New Year’s Eve at Union Ballet and celebrated the arrival of the Taisho 11th Year at twelve o'clock.
○From the 4th onward, I visited museums day after day.

8th: Mr. Kamio departed for Würzburg.
13th: I departed for Vienna of Austria.
Having arrived in the great metropolis, I encounter theft in an ordinary manner.

Only when I entered and lingered in the museum did my heart become my solitary own.

Having apprehensively spent days in Berlin, I found peace and prepared to depart for Vienna.

*Tsuyujimo*

Postscript

○

In terms of production chronology, the poetry collection *Tsuyujimo* represents my third collection, following the poetry collection *Arare Tama*. This compilation gathers poems composed from December of Taisho 6 (1917)—when I assumed my position as professor at Nagasaki Medical College—until March of Taisho 10 (1921) when I departed Nagasaki; those written after returning to Tokyo through late October of that year before embarking on my European studies; those from boarding a ship to Marseille and traveling by train through Paris to Berlin where I stayed temporarily; and finally those up until January 13th of Taisho 11 (1922) when I departed for Vienna—including verses composed during my convalescence at Shinano Fujimi.

○

My Nagasaki-era poems—that is, those largely from Taisho 7th, 8th, and 9th years—aside from ones occasionally published in *Araragi*, *Osaka Mainichi Shimbun*, *Osaka Asahi Shimbun*, *Nagasaki Nippō*, the magazine *Kōmōbune*, and *Akou*, were recorded in notebooks intermingled with unpublished drafts; some had even been organized as poetic manuscripts. These were all destroyed during the fire disaster of Taisho 13th year.
Given that there was nothing more that could be done, I resolved to compile only those works that had already been published, and around Taisho 15th Year (1926), I even had portions of them sent to print.
However, quite unexpectedly, I discovered four small notebooks from my Nagasaki period within the luggage I had brought back from Europe; inside them were various poems I had written during my convalescence in Taisho 9th Year (1920) due to illness.
That is to say, I discovered that all of the dozen or so poems titled "Onsen-dake" (Hot Spring Peak), which I had published in the magazine *Kaihō* around summer of Taisho 10th Year (1921), were present within these small notebooks.
When I considered this, these small notebooks had been placed in my luggage along with other items when I embarked on my overseas journey.
In the notebooks are unpublished drafts from my travels from Nagasaki toward Kagoshima and Miyazaki, as well as several poems written en route after leaving Nagasaki for Tokyo.
These are all crude poems, but I wished to commemorate them.
However, as the small notebooks from around Taisho 7th and 8th Years had been lost, there remain no poems composed during those years.
In the summer of Taisho 7th Year (1918), I traveled with two or three colleagues from Usa to Yabakei, crossed mountains to reach Hita, then descended the Chikugo River by boat from Hita where we ate large ayu fish; during our nighttime mountain crossing from Yabakei to Hita, we witnessed a red mountain fire—though there were poems from that time too, these had been destroyed in the fire.
In Taisho 8th Year (1919), I visited Kumamoto with colleagues and acquaintances, then climbed Mount Aso and traveled onward to Beppu; photographs taken at Aso's midslope still remain, and there should have been several poems from that time—but since they had been burned in the fire, there was nothing that could be done.

○

Such songs that were lost are, after all, crude things; when viewed broadly, they are certainly not worth regretting. However, once they are lost, it is human nature to feel affection even for trivial things, which is why this collection has come to include quite a number of insignificant poems.
As for the poems of my journey to the West—the journey being my first experience—amidst hurried compositions, I managed to organize only this much.
Several poems about red clouds at sea emerge—this too was unavoidable for one experiencing their first voyage.

○

When I returned to Japan and lost my magazines and books in a fire, my compassionate friends presented me with clippings from their own collections of newspapers and magazines.
Those friends were Watanabe Kosuke (Yomohei), Murata Toshiaki, Ugaki Tamotsu, Kagoshima Jūzō, Takeuchi Jisaburō, Moriji Heihira (Takaya Hiroshi), Akaboshi Shin'ichi, Murata Toshio, Yamane Hiroshi, Kanō Miyo, Satō Minehito, Endō Masaru, Hatakeyama Motosaburō, Yūki Kenzō, Mita Reito, Shimura Ennosuke, and Gasha Hidenari—and this collection could only be compiled through the grace of these individuals.
In particular, that writings of someone like me had been preserved so meticulously moved me to tears.
This emotion and gratitude remain utterly unchanged even today, over a decade later.

○

The collection’s name *Tsuyujimo* was chosen because I felt this volume primarily resonated with the essence of my later Nagasaki period.
However, in the *Manyoshu*, there is “like dew and frost melting away.”
A friend remarked that titles like “Dew and Frost That Pass Away” seemed to hint at impermanence and sorrow, suggesting that “Tsuyujimo” might not be suitable as a collection’s name. But I replied that since there existed a poem in *Manyoshu* Volume XII—“Though dew and frost melt away this aging self, again I shall return, awaiting thoughts of you”—I would generally keep this name.
Moreover, around the time I announced this collection, the term *Tsuyujimo* appeared in a certain individual’s posthumous manuscript, which made me wonder whether I should reconsider; however, I ultimately resolved to retain this name, adhering to my original intent.

○

This poetry collection was compiled in the summer of Showa 15th Year.
I had planned to publish my poetry collections in reverse chronological order starting from *Kangun*, so it remained unclear when this collection would be released; in any case, I organized it while arranging my other collections.
(The above was recorded in August of Showa 15th Year.)

○

In the summer of Showa 18th Year (1943), Mr. Saeki Fujinosuke of Yokohama showed me the tanzaku on the left that I had written in Nagasaki on August 7th of Taisho 7th Year (1918).

Since coming to Nagasaki, over a hundred days have passed; I find the karatachi flowers poignant.

○

Subsequently, on December 6th of Showa 18th Year (1943), Mr. Moriji Heihira of Nagasaki communicated as follows.

On January 23, Taisho 10th Year (1921), a farewell gathering for Professor Saitō was held at Shakamachi Matsuraku in Nagasaki City.
Attendees included both professors Saitō Mokichi and Hirota Kanzan, Ōkubo Hitoo (Nioto), Maeda Takeshi, Ōtsuka Kunio, and Takaya Hiroshi (Moriji Heihira); Professor Saitō composed the following impromptu poems.

Though this transient life brings sorrow, I go forth unbidden—holding memories as keepsake.

In this house where people revel drunkenly and linger still, within our hearts lies undisturbed calm.

Between pauses in the maidens' lively clamor—heard—the sound of hail falling ever poignant.

In pauses between the women's clamor—heard—the sound of hail collecting through the night, ah.

The mountain south of temple town darkly—as night endlessly deepens—the sound of hail falling.

○

In September 1945 (Showa 20), while residing in Kanakame, Yamagata Prefecture, I received correspondence from Mr. Nagai Tokutarō (Natei) of Atami Isohachisō, who reported on the atrocities caused by the atomic bombs deployed by U.S. military forces while informing me of the following three poems I had left behind in Taisho 9th Year (1920).

I have not forgotten the crocodile egg cherished by Nagai Natei of Nagasaki.

How beautiful was the wife of Natei who served me Nanjing stew.

In the quiet house of Natei, in this room—I came often; Hyakusui too came.

○

Taisho 7th Year corresponded to my thirty-seventh year of age; thus, nearly all the poems in this collection were composed between the ages of thirty-seven and forty.
Furthermore, this collection contained 697 poems in its main text and nine in the postscript; thus, summing them up amounted to 706 poems in total.
(The above was recorded in September of Showa 20th Year.)

○

The publication of this poetry collection was made possible through the generous assistance of Messrs. Iwanami Shigeo, Nunokawa Kakuzoemon, Satō Satarō, Nakayama Takeo, and Enomoto Junkō.
I have been ill since March and am still bedridden, but during this time I was met with the sudden death of Mr. Iwanami Shigeo, and my grief knows no bounds.

(May 29, Showa 21st Year [1946], in Ōishida, written by Saitō Mokichi.)