A WITHERED LOTUS-FLOWER
One evening, in my cabin, in the midst of the Yellow Sea, my eyes fall
upon the lotus-blossoms brought from Diou-djen-dji; they had lasted
several days; but now they are withered, and strew my carpet pathetically
with their pale pink petals.
I, who have carefully kept so many faded flowers, fallen, alas! into
dust, stolen here and there, at moments of parting in different parts of
the world; I, who have kept so many that the collection is now an absurd,
an indistinguishable herbarium--I try hard, but without success,
to awaken some sentiment for these lotus--and yet they are the last
living souvenirs of my summer at Nagasaki.
I pick them up, however, with a certain amount of consideration, and I
open my port-hole.
From the gray misty sky a strange light falls upon the waters; a dim and
gloomy twilight descends, yellowish upon this Yellow Sea. We feel that
we are moving northward, that autumn is approaching.
I throw the poor lotus into the boundless waste of waters, making them my
best excuses for consigning them, natives of Japan, to a grave so solemn
and so vast.
An Appeal to the Gods
Oama-Terace-Omi-Kami, wash me clean
from this little marriage of mine,
in the waters of the river of Kamo!
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