Thy quiet wisdom, like the antler-moss,

Forms a green triad in my memory.

Imbas forosna,–knowledge that illumes

All it adventures; things half-said, and so

The dearer; poems that lead The spirit forth

From the bonds of understanding. Three rich thoughts

Close to my fingers clambering up the rocks

Of the new mountain-life that wakes the joy

Of my most ancient spirit,–antlered moss

Beneath grave cedars, taller than the masts

Of long-forgotten argosies, the beams

That sway against earth-tremors down the depth

Of grim pagodas built in every region

Of long-brooding Japan. Wisdom and sorrow

Moving to their slow fulness, in their train

Bring noble compensation, little things

That glow with infinite wistfulness, that are

Rare tidings to the soul.