Sweep unrest

      Out of my blood,

      Winds of the sea! Sweep the fog

      Out of my brain

      For I am one

      Who has told Life he will be free.

      Who will not doubt of work that's done,

      Who will not fear the work to do.

      Who will hold peaks Promethean

      Better than all Jove's honey-dew.

      Who when the Vulture tears his breast

      Will smile into the Terror's Eyes.

      Who for the World has this Bequest —

      Hope, that eternally is wise.

      Last night I slipt from the banks of dream

      And swam in the currents of God,

      On a tide where His fairies were at play,

      Catching salt tears in their little white hands,

      For human hearts;

      And dancing dancing, in gala bands,

      On the currents of God;

      And singing, singing: —

      There is no wind blows here or spray —

      Wind upon us!

      Only the waters ripple away

      Under our feet as we gather tears.

      God has made mortals for the years,

      Us for alway!

      God has made mortals full of fears,

      Fears for the night and fears for the day.

      If they would free them from grief that sears,

      If they would keep all that love endears,

      If they would lay no more lilies on biers —

      Let them say!

      For we are swift to enchant and tire

      Time's will!

      Our feet are wiser than all desire,

      Our song is better than faith or fame;

      To whom it is given no ill e'er came,

      Who has it not grows chill!

      Who has it not grows laggard and lame,

      Nor knows that the world is a Minstrel's lyre,

      Smitten and never still!..

      Last night on the currents of God.

      The seven fleets of Venice

      Set sail across the sea

      For Cyprus and for Trebizond

      Ayoub and Araby.

      Their gonfalons are floating far,

      St. Mark's has heard the mass,

      And to the noon the salt lagoon

      Lies white, like burning glass.

      The seven fleets of Venice —

      And each its way to go,

      Led by a Falier or Tron,

      Zorzi or Dandalo.

      The Patriarch has blessed them all,

      The Doge has waved the word,

      And in their wings the murmurings

      Of waiting winds are heard.

      The seven fleets of Venice —

      And what shall be their fate?

      One shall return with porphyry

      And pearl and fair agàte.

      One shall return with spice and spoil

      And silk of Samarcand.

      But nevermore shall one win o'er

      The sea, to any land.

      Oh, they shall bring the East back,

      And they shall bring the West,

      The seven fleets our Venice sets

      A-sail upon her quest.

      But some shall bring despair back

      And some shall leave their keels

      Deeper than wind or wave frets,

      Or sun ever steals.

      If I were in Japan today,

      In little Japan today,

      I'd watch the sampan-rowers ride

      On Yokohama bay.

      I'd watch the little flower-folk

      Pass on the Bund, where play

      Of "foreign" music fills their ears

      With wonder new alway.

      Or in a kuruma I'd step

      And "Noge-yama!" cry,

      And bare brown feet should wheel me fast

      Where Noge-yama, high

      Above the city and sea's vast

      Uprises, with the sigh

      Of pines about its festal fanes

      Built free to sun and sky.

      And there till dusk I'd sit and think

      Of Shaka Muni, lord

      Of Buddhas; or of Fudo's fire

      And rope and lifted sword.

      And, ere I left, a surging shade

      Of clouds, a distant horde,

      Should break and Fugi's cone stand clear —

      With sutras overscored.

      Sutras of ice and rock and snow,

      Written by hands of heat

      And thaw upon it, till 'twould seem

      Meant for the final seat

      Of the lord Buddha and his bliss —

      If ever he repeat

      This life where millions still are bound

      Within Illusion's cheat.

      Or were I in Japan today —

      Perchance at Kyoto —

      Down Tera-machi I would search

      For charm or curio.

      Up narrow stairs in sandals pure

      Of soil or dust I'd go

      Into a room of magic shapes —

      Gods, dragons, dread Nio.

      And seated on the silent mats,

      With many a treasure near —

      Of ivory the gods have dreamt,

      And satsuma as dear,

      Of bronzes whose mysterious mint

      Seems not of now or here —

      I'd