Creation Dawn

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My semi-autobiographical novel ‘The Gideon Computer’ begins at the Golden West Saloon in downtown Oakland where Bill gets drunk and passes out. He comes to standing mid-span on the Golden Gate bridge looking at the setting sun. There is a ceremony about dropping the bomb on Hiroshima. This novel is about the Guilt Code we all carry. The premise of this story stems from the old hippie saying;

“Don’t lay your guilt-trip on me!”

Today, the President of the United States put a wreath on a small pyramid at the Hiroshima monument.  A week ago I anointed a veiled women my Spirit Guide and Last Muse from the Other Side. I thought I had a month before she brought me to the core of my story. We have arrived. Her name is Gertrude Farquharson Boyle-Kanno, a renowned sculptress who married  Takeshi Kanno, a famous poet who performed his ‘Creation Dawn’ in a redwood grove in Carmel that was founded by Bohemian Journalists and Writers. I compare Gertrude to the Carmel Artist, Christine Rosamond Benton. My sister and I were at the core of the ‘Peace Movement’.

Captain Gregory

‘King of the Bohemians’

HIROSHIMA, Japan — President Obama laid a wreath at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial on Friday, telling an audience that included survivors ofAmerica’s atomic bombing in 1945 that technology as devastating as nuclear arms demands a “moral revolution.”

Technological progress without an equivalent progress in human institutions can doom us,” Mr. Obama said, adding that such technology “requires a moral revolution as well.”

Gertrude Farquharson Boyle Kanno (January 26, 1878 – August 14, 1937) was an American sculptor.[1]


She was born in San Francisco on January 26, 1878, and married Takeshi Kanno in Seattle, Washington, on May 22, 1907. She was the sixth child of John Boyle and Helen Milliken Clark. She attended Cogswell College, Lick School (California School of Mechanical Arts) and Mark Hopkins Institute of Art. She studied under Douglas Tilden and Arthur Mathews. In New York after 1915, she lived with Eitaro Ishigaki until about 1928. She was art editor of the Birth Control Review for about three years. She did portrait busts and medallions in plaster and bronze of many famous persons including: Isadora Duncan, Eitaro Ishigaki,Henry Cowell, Uldrick Thompson, Margaret Miller, Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin D. Roosevelt, John Muir, Ida Tarbell, Ezra Meeker, John Swett, Joseph LeConte, David Starr Jordan, Joaquin Miller, Edwin Markham, William Keith, Luther Burbank,Albert Einstein, Charles Erskine Scott Wood, John Fremont, Susan Mills, Horace Traubel, Christy Mathewson and Sidney Gulick.













Takeshi Kanno 


Copyright 1913 


Takeshi Kanno 

(All rights reserved) 

©C1.A84 7576 

This, my soul-incense, I perfume 
before the altar of divine ego. 

Portrait-bust of Takeshi Kanno V)v C^ertrude Boyle Kanno, 

Thou my figure, — dimmed shadowy ruined castle! 

Within thy ghostly vault incalculable echo of death 

Howling as monstrous sea; 

Without, the castle shadows float in dragonish mists: 

Eternal tempest of longing ocean roaring. 

But what a sweet, wild si^ht! Ivook there, there! 

Nameless, deathless, beauteous flower clinging 

To wounded breast of thy soul-ruined castle. 

Where floating the bravest battle-shadow 

Of thy past life now? 

Even though thy strong castle-hold funerals 

Into the unknown silent domain by the eternal hand of time 

Yet, ah, here! here! thou, my nameless flower, 

Remain like everlasting reluctant dream! 

Ah, my figure, -- shadowy castle, melts into thee, 

Thou everlasting memorial flower! 

"Born from my mother's heart, in the midst of 

Fragrant bloom of native nest, 
Where the shadow of pine danced in the tv/ilight of 

Ruined castle encircled by the wild-flower valley; 
Born to this world like rivulet that runs from deep 

Bosom of mother valley, 
Where the spring lo\e-bream melts the divine white 
Snow from the breast of father Fujiyama." 

!« !9! i«> nm m fSi 

Thus he came, this singer of the Orient, and 
with a nature that could not bind itself to any one 
phase of truth or racial conception, strongly individ- 
ual, at the same time universal in spirit, an advocate 
of harmonism, of "everything different therefore one, 
— conscious independence, unconscious unity." 

This song-philosopher from earliest childhood 
imbibed the rare nectar of the Chinese and Japanese 
classics, beginning at the age of five to chant the clas- 
sics to his grandparent, a man of literary worth, at 
first for sembi (rice cake), later for the delight in the 
classics themselves. Until his thirteenth year his 
training was purely oriental, mainly Spartan or Bushi- 
do (the way of the knight) -- having sprung from the 

Samurai (the knighthood of Japan). From then on 
his education became equally western and eastern. 

During his college life he spent much time in 
the study of literature and philosophy, specializing in 
his theological course on the higher criticisms of 
Christianity; striving to explain Christian philosophy 
by modern science and ethics; ever drawing compar- 
isons, discovering similarities and differences in the 
teachings of Buddha, Jesus, Confucius, Brahma, and 
others; delighting in the symbolism and strength of 
Hebrew literature; revelling in the mythology of the 
Greeks, drinking deep of its sparkling beauty, — as 
he had quaffed in early youth the saki of his race's 

Leaving his college life at Kyoto, he jour- 
neyed forth into the far distant parts of his country, - 
from village to hamlet strolling by running brook; 
wandering like free wind through time-ruined castle 
or along sylvan shore; teaching, lecturing anon, sing- 
ing his song alway, his scroll of sonnets, "Travell 
ing Gown," in his native tongue, lengthening with 
each step of his journey. 

Thus passed his youth away. Without ex- 
pecting or planning, one fair day he set sail for a 
new world. After wandering along the western coast 
of America he found a spot in harmony with the 

meditative spirit so strong within him, -- up on the 
heights overlooking San Francisco Bay, the wild yet 
peaceful abode of the Bard of the Sierras. 

Here he has remained in the silence of dream, 
sunk deep in the ocean-thought of the universe; anon 
awaking to whisper his fancies, his sea-murmurings, 
to the soft breezes, to voice his soul-dreams to my ear. 
Even the Bard of the mountains caught not a glimpse 
of his vision nor heard a strain from his song; meet- 
ing each day as simple friends, remarking on the 
fairness of a morn or the beauty-splendor of a sun 
set, each muffled in the cloak of his fancy, each led 
by the hand of his muse, apart would wander. 

In our cabin among the tree-tops oft, "as the 
shadows of night melt into purple dawn, the melting 
time of the real and the dream, of sleep and awaken- 
ing, the conscious, unconscious state of the mind", 
I arouse myself and sieze and preserve the utterance 
of spirit, — this voice from the unknown domain of 
thought. As I take these utterances, word for word, 
I see nothing distinctly, yet at a distance I catch 
a glimpse of a great being moving, - seen, unseen, 
like the oriental picture of the sacred dragon, half 
veiled in cloud, seen but to vanish in mist. 

Well may his nature be likened to the crystal 
dragon; his mind, his spirit, resembling the flight of 

that mystic being, - plunging deep in the great sea of 
philosophy, seeking some hidden jewel in its gloom- 
cavern; rising to hover like cloud of doubt over the 
waters of feeling; soarin.g to lofty mountain-peak of 
religion, wrapped in the mists of inspiration; on the 
wings of the wind drifting, floating, sailing o'er purple 
seas of dawn, over flowery plains of poetry and love 
' 'whirling with the wild ecstasy of paSvSion sounds, bend- 
ing di'eaming ear to the silent song of gentle midnight 
storm of endless longing. "---"A dragon breathing life 
and death. - Breathing the breath of poetry and with 
"ear bending to the voice of naked creation," this 
minstrel sounds for us unknown strains, whirling us 
hito the very center of feeHng, where we behold the 
mists of creation rising about us, and "hear the deep 
drone of mingling waves, - the great sounds of eternal 

"I plunge into the vast bigness of chaos, 
Sublime music guides ni}^ soul, 
Feeling blending hito dream world, - 
My mind flows into soul of uni^•erse, 
So naturally comes mj^ song. ' ' 


Gertrude Boyle Kanno 

Dream HiLjhts 



Scene I 

(Near the sea, by the castle. Sagano and Saarashi 
transported into sublimest vision of Creation; tlieir 
souls enraptured with solemn music of love -ocean) 

Voice from within 

*'Let there be light !'^ 

God knocked at mystic portal 

Of maiden's soul: 

Behold! love-light shines forth 

From her heart of dawning-f lower! 

Awake, my soul! 

Open, gate of mystery! 

Great minstrel, 

Touching the sacred harp 

Quivering from God to man. 

Listen! mellowed sorrov/ sounding 

Sagano, an unknown poet. Saarashi, the beloved of Sagano. 

From twilight forest of resurrection-dawn. 

On the shore of life 

Waves of ecstasy dashing! 

Poised as Venus in yearning: 

Crowning, foaming flower of rapture, 

Breathe in, breath out, 

Waves of life pulsing. 

Now invisible hand of mighty Creator 

Forging human soul 

On the anvil of passion; 

Millions of unformed souls 

Burning in fire of love-ocean, 

Breathing v/hite-f lamed waves 

Of melting love: 

Thus God shapes his mighty 

Image of Male and Female: 
This is the poetry of poetries, 
Greatest poet, God! 

Twas the morn, 

Even dawning bud of pure maiden's soul 

Would smile: 

My feeling awakened to dream from real; 

Phantom-soft touch 

As spring wind, dimpling 

Upon breast of calm sea,~ 

A touch, such a touch, love! 

Thou visible hand of unseen Creator — 

Thick morning mist descending with real dawn- 
both figures seen, unseen.- Indistinct chanting 
of Saarashi mingHng with Voice of Ocean. 
Anon in the twiHght shadows of morn vv hite 
petals showering with longing sea wind. 


From bottomless sorrow 

Of unknown love-sea, 

Slov/ly mourns her voice, 

Like distant storm, heard, unheard, 

Mingling with love-strings 

In vibration of naked souls; 

Storming upon wild yearning 

In melting sweetness of love-rain; 

Now howling as sea- wind 

Dancing with dragonish pine 

In mists of wild ecstasy; 

Nov/ cradling my soul 

In her young moon-craft; 

Now crushing her naked beauty 

Upon sounding love-ocean 

Where my dream swims, 
While silver star scattering 
Her love-beams into the shadow of dawn! 
My perfumed heart 
Tangles with curtain of dream, 
\¥hile my smouldering soul 
Mingles with shadow of webbing life! 
Ah, sv/eet! 

'Twas moment vision of her souled voice 
Which buried in silent grave of my heart, 
In mist of stormy Creation. 

Sweet, cmel love, 
0, draw my breath! 
In a moment ~ Ah, such moment! - 
Devours whole life! 
In such moment 
Miniatures eternity! 
Devours whole soul 
Into one breath! 
Love! in thy presence 
All being melts into one! 
Speak not of such moment- 
Holiest of the holy. 
Atmosphere of life. 
This is the Breath of God 

In Creation Dawn! — 

In moment I feel 

Dragon tangle my body! 
Ah, pain! 

Yet after a moment I feel 

Angel cradling my feeling 
In her soft love-cradle! — 

My hungry soul searching, 

Stretches trembling finger; 

I feel something touching, 

Soft as rain of petals showerings. 

On the current of love tide 

In craft of life, 

Oar of feeling rov/ing. 

Foams of ecstasy splashing. 

Love- waves of male and female mingling. 
Sagano and Saarashi 

Up and down drifting — 

To unknown longing ocean, 

Where souls' love created 

In first day of dawning Creation— 



In phantom craft! 

Where art thou saihng? 

From where, to where? 
Ah, nowhere, yet everywhere. 

My leaUng melting somewhere, 

Like evening twihght 
Melts into mystic shadov/ of night, 

Here perfume of dreams flowering 

Betwixt thee and me! 

What unconscious sv/eet 

From sky of yearning clouds 

Of wild desire — 

As spring shower slowly sprinkling 

Her electric feeling 

Upon harp of my thirsty soul!— 

Before action ~ ah, such a moment! 

What picture in thy mind floating? 

Where is your will? 

Now all being veiled before you. 
Slowly, eagerly yearning. 

Where? ah, what? 

Feeling raining as petals shower, 

Heart whirling v/ith wind, 


Souls breathing spirit of God 

(Moon sinking in western sea; night blackening) 


Tempestuous wind of desire (sudden storm 

arises, scattering flowers raining) 

Violating with homeless clouds of doubt, 

Storming on boundless ocean 

of Love-Creation, 

Thundering far from heaven 

To bottomless deep, distant yet near. 

Sea or mist dragon waving, 

Scarlet fire from mouth forking, (lightning) 

Billowing tides of life mingling, 

Phantom locks of uncreated spirits 

Devouring white foams 

Of passion breakers— -(voice of waves heard) 

Now spirit of eternal Creation 

Moving upon love-sea. 

Howling toward heaven like lions, 

Mountaining hungry surges, on and on — 

Ah, sweet! 

On v/aving ecstasy of feeling-sea. 

Now, ah, floating! 

Ah, drifting! 


Feeling in most, oh, wait, — 
Lo! tide of life returns 
Unto the Beginning, where my soul slept! 

Love-wings of stormy wind ceasing, 
Nothing remains in sky of mind. 
Fainting mists showering away, 

But morning star dimly weeping — 

While stormed petals hunting 
Track of dream! 

Dawning love awakening, 
Shining forth her love-light 

Look, dear, west! 
Haze or mist; 

Ah, morning rainbow, arcade of 
God's temple of Genesis Night 
Appears in sky of love-dawning — 
List to song from, our inmost soul: 

^^Let there be light." 
Voice through chaos 
Awakes the harp of her dreaming soul; 

Behold, maiden drawls 
Her cloud-curtain of Creation-Dawn. 


Scene II 

Virgin forest of meditation- -Sagano's mind wandering 
in maiden-chaos, still dreaming sublimest vision of 
creation which he chants in dedication to his beloved 
Saarashi whose spirit hovers around him. 

(Voice from within before curtain-rise) 
^^Let there behght." 
Voice through chaos 
Awaked the harp of her dreaming soul! 
Behold, the maiden 

Draws her cloud-veil of Creation-dawn! 

Shapeless cloudy forms vaporing 

From bottomless chaos 

Of the maiden's heart! 

A knock at her secret chamber, 

Then opens portal of dream. 

Draws the veil of holy shrine 

Of the sacred grail, 

Lips taste the wine, — a touch of life! 

Aagin I see shapless form in magic chaos; 

I heard two voices, 'Touch not, touch not!'' 


Then I replied ''It means touch?'' 

I entered at the gate of Life; 

What a perfect blossoming land here! 

I feel something moving, — 

'Twas the wind of feeling 

Shaking, touching the harp of my soul I 

What a thrilling, vibrating 

From her shore to my shore! 

White living strings from heaven (father) 

To earth (mother) stretched ;- 

Is that rain of love? 
I heard again little voice, 
'Touch not, touch not!'' 
I knocked at the gate of Death and entered 
I saw a petal fall on a grave unkown; 
Thrice I heard the same voices, 
"Touch not, touch not!" 
I saw two figures shadowing there: 
I approach and I gazed and gaze, — 
Ah, 'twas the shadow of my parents! 
Here comes Buddha gazing at the petal 
On the grave. 

Silently he smiled and smiled! 
Here comes Christ gazing at petal 
On the grave,— w^ept and wept! 
Here life blossoming, 


Souls perfuming on the holy shrine 
In the presence of the Creator; 
God's burning pen writing 
On the white pages of human soul! 
I see the countless books of poems 
Burning here in the red-blood-fire 
Of Creation Dawn! 
Here writing, writing, invisible hand 
Of Creator, 

Characterless poem of creation, 
With His pen of eternal-love! 
Here eternity blending into a minute; 
What feeling, burning pen, 
Swift as thunder-lightning! 
What souls streamed from His living pen! 
Like the exquisite melody blending 
From the silence of the kisses. 
Here eternity bows his locks- 
Here all kings of worlds 
Bow their proud heads- 
All here! All from here! All here grow: 
All here die! Life and death at last one,- 
A drop of His pen! 

In chaos shapeless form f loating- 
Now parting, yet blending. 
Floating, sailing! 


Titnc? Wcyowd clcrnily,— 

Where? Not kowiriK,- 

llow? Selfless feelin^,- 

Afi, ending where? O love! 

hi rTiin|_';lin,i^ Iwilij.'^hl.s .'irul (hincinj/ shadows 

Ah, min^lin^! Oh, floaling! 

What? Ah, what? 

Here, ah, here! 

I»ey()nd mirarle — 

Thiis, ah, thus! 

Life l)realhing tfiere, 

Oh, here souls p(U'fuming on holy I'.hriiie 

Of Creator. 

On (he misty shore of love-se;i 
In a woman's soul, flower of life smiling, 
Whife as [)assion breaker; 
While I gaze, tide of life swelling swelling, 
P'rom lM)t,l,omless love-oeean. 
Onthered in my (^yes a drop of tears, 
r.'iinfid sweet, and falls nf)on 
'llw blooming fl(>wer. 

Oh look, look! falling, fallini":, 
Petiils falling, dancing with wild sen- wind! 
li(M>k, look! |)et.als kissing, kissing 
With whitened passion-breakers! 
Look, look! floating floating 

A moil}'; I he wnvosof (Ik^ \'i\{.v\ 

Mvcii ;i .h.-idnw of pcl.'il I losi, from my si(k', 
Wlicn^ is 1 lir (Ircniii of |m'(;iI now? 

Two souls l)rr;i(,hinj» w;iriii hn'.-ill) 

or love cns'iiioii, 
StindoworHoiils Imniiii^' "'• <'l<'nijil lire 
< ){' loii^niif;. 

Look! shu|)(M)r IwosohIh I'loutinj^, 
Swiinmin^'. in ;in ncviiw 
Of iimilicniMc ocslnsy, — 
Swimmin).'; on I he wnvcs of r;ipl,iin\ 
In Mic liol-l.omh'ss love sea. 
Oh, 'l,w;is I he firo of cri'iil ion! 
Myri.'ul billows niisii^'- iJicir whiU;nc(J locks, 
Howling, fiowlini.';, crying! 
H(*h()l(l, llir ccnlrr of v;i|)or, 
The whili'iKMl ri;inir :;li;i,|)('S 
Ttic pcrfccl, form of olrrnnl n<»w! 

WfiJil, hii^f mil umiml si illnrss sprcjids 

I'd'orr my cy^'-'s 
When my divino o^o awakes,— 
"Mvorylliin^V here, evcrylhinir h<'n\ 

In hIIcuicc sh;ipcl<\4sly she sicpl,, 
Incrn.'.c :;m(>k<* rising;, 


Wind forgot to awake silence; 

Here eternity blossoming, speaking, 

Where death resurrecting up from sky. 

Petal falls on her lips of shapeless dream, - 

She awakes as deserted petal 

Of resurrection! 

What fullness, thou Conception! 

What smooth drifting on thy calm oily sea. 

What a deep drone of mingling waves 

I hear; 

Yes, ^twas the voice of God moving upon 

The water of feeling! 

What soft rowing in thy sacred craft. 

Floating on love-ocean. 

Where the holy gail is shrined. 

Say not, she is a transform of God, 

Ah, this! 

Thus I kiss the warm lips of the Creator! 
A touch! what sweet touch is this? 
Soft as breath of budding heart. 
What the naked shadows of Creation? 
Ah, ask me not where is garment of day! 
I saw her figure floating on my breast 
Of longing ocean. 
As wave of incense-smoke tangles me soft. 

Sun kissing curtain of dawn, 


Where souls dancing, 
Mingling in love-twilght 
Tasting melting sweetness,— 
Love- tide ebbing, flowing, toward portal 
Of life yearning. 

In sky of hearts clouds of desire dancing, 
Round sun light touching. 
Souls embracing, ecstasy raining: 

Here the hearts blossoming. 
There life flowering. 
Feeling, vibrating like exquisite music, 
Souls breathing as sun kisses the curtain 
Of dawn, 

Here Creation giving breath of life: 
Sudden a mass of cloud of whitened desire 
Takes the rain of violent storm. 
Mounting on the naked love-waves. 
While the living waters flow 
From the Father River to the Mother Sea. 
Look! her figure in naked garment; 
Thou whitened love flame! 
ghost! thou floating in silken mists, ~ 

Seen, unseen. 
In sky of my longing eyes, 
Look! she combing her hair. 
Reflecting her naked beauty on mirror. 


I see there vapor of souls, - 

There! there! 
I breathe fragrance of heart, 

Here! here! 
Thou Hving love-grave,— 
Nay, native home of heaven. 

Thou Eden! 
There, there in midst love nest 
Where wings of souls fledged, 
Under the rock evrlasting stream flowing. 

Floating in silken mists, thou and I- 
Her naked beauty f loatng 
In silken mists, seen, unseen. 
We float in silken love-mists. 
Our flaming forms flying as wings of birds ; 
Inward we fly, upward we soar. - 
Hark! voice of night that sunk 
Into bottomless silence. 
Listen deeper and deeper. 
Silent voice of night. 
Love-sun mirroring naked beauty 
Upon curtain of night. 
Look! child of Dawn born! 

Hope dawing. 

Love-sun awaking. 

Curtain of night drawing. 


When God stretched white love-strings 

Between ^ thee and me, 

Mystic harp of Creator began to quiver. 

What smooth, touching hand 

Of visible Creator 

Ministrels like dream of maiden awaking! 

What a soft flowing, like sound 

Of moonbeams. 

Dancing down with stream. - 
Dragon breathing life and death! 
Raining white blossoming rain,- 

It was night, indeed, - such black night! 
I touched the beauty of life, 
I drunk my soul from thy burning mouth. 
And v/rote unformed poetry 
On thy misty, tiding breast, ~ 
Breaking Father Sea soul against cave 
Of Mother Earth! 

Devouring white, uncreated forms! 
Devouring willful waves of desire 
Against dark cave of Mother Earth! 

Sound of breaking souls! 
My heart vibrating with invisible strings 

Of music playing in thy breast, 
And my soul touching with dying sounds 

That return to infant dream.- 


Bottomless sweetness of love-rain 

Showering between thee and me; 

Graceful weeping willow in the mist 

Seen, unseen, 

Feeling swings her shadow 

As morning breeze: 

Two whitened souls perfuming incense 

Of beauty before holy shrine of Creator! 

Beauteous formed poem dropping 

From living pen upon the baby page 

Of whitened soul,- 

Ah, now, why, 'twas a living dream 

In Creation Dawn! 

Voice from love-tide 

Endless mystery! 

Great sounds of eternal tides! 

God is boundless, bottomless sea 

Of Creation! 

My soul slowly laving in eternal love tide 

Of bottomless mystery, 

And my ear bending to the voice 

Of naked Creation. - 

God's love instrument, thou my love! 

I touched to thy whitened strings- 
Storming souls trembling, 
Drunkened hearts quivering. 


Waves of sound in intoxicated beauty 

Flying. - 

I raise curtain of silence and enter: 

Nothing there I see in dark twilight 

But one beauteous God's love flame 

Smiling in silence, 

Spinning endless thread 

Of measureless rapture. 

While I gazing my garment of day 

Without toil all torn, 

While webs of life tangle me in love nest, 

Spinning, tangling, springing, returning. 

Streaming, whirling, whirling 

Into center of chaos! 
Thus I sung voiceless song of Creation- 

What is it? what is it! 

Between thee and me? 
Something sv/eeter than flying music, 
Lovelier than flower. 

What is it! What is it! 
Between thee and me? 
Something dreamier than 
The veiled spring moon. 
Brighter than the morning star. 

What i s it! what is it! * 

Between thee and me? 


Yea, *tis the sours native garden where 
God planted the tree of love,-- 
Ah, thus I return to thee 

Thou great bosom of mother Earth, 

Through unlocked portal of woman's 
Bottomless, beaming love-ocean. 
What! ah, what! 
Between thee and me? 
Ah, love mingling in blossoming air, 

Endless weaver of love-mystery! 

Perfuming dancer in incense longing! 

Phantom searcher of mingling hearts! 

Shapeless catcher of voice of soul! 
Yea, yet listen more : 

Sun is thy heart. 

Moon is thy soul, 

Awake as the naked beauty 

Of Mother Earth at day. 

Asleep under the starry garment 

Of mystic night. 

Dreaming on the breast of God, 

Kissing the lips of melting sweetness 

Of Creator, - 
Draw thy cloudy veil of purple Dawn 
And receive the love-beam 


Into thy budding craft, 
Floating in perfuming air; 

Thou visible Creator, (Saarashi appears) 
my love! 

I sup thy soul from thy burning mouth! 
Thus: we create a new world 
Between thee and me. 
'Twas the voice of God,- 

^Tet there be light!" 


Scene I 

Grey summer moon-night-- Sagano sleeping by the 
path to the grave of his friend-philosopher, -- gong 
strikes one — he awakes. 

What a dream I dreamed! 
My soul still wandering twixt the unknown 
Boundaries of dream and real, 
Like living ghost. 

Where is she? 
I feel her fragrance still hovering 
Around me like warbling voice of night. 
Did I not pass the seven colored 
Mystic portal of heaven, 
Baptised with celestial shower of love! 
Did I not sup my soul 
From her burning mouth! 
Yet why anxious clouds floating 
In the sky of my soul? 
Why am I restless as turbulent waves? 
Come, Spirit, thou charmest me once 
And sing old song ~ 

(Saarashi's astral body illumines before his eyes)-- 

Come! float before my eyes. 


Thou beauteous Flame 

Of Eternal Female Creation! 

Art thou ocean of love or sea of fire? 

My drifting soul anchored 

In thy yearning depths, 

My restless heart pillowed 

On thy cradling waves ! 

My homeless feeling intoxicated 

With mighty peace when I float 

In thy mystic vessel. 

Thou immortal-female-beauty! 

Within thy chaos-bosom invisible 

Love-ocean rolling, 

I plunge into its yearning depths, 

Where my soul formed in the Beginning 

When Spirit of God moved upon Love-ocean, 

What sight there, 
Down yonder in human-blooming- valley! 
Waves of flower dancing in air. 
Mingling in water of life. 
Floating down toward Love-sea! 
Thou longing phantom figure! 
Why thou raising mystic veil 
Of dreaming Spring? Ah, such sight! 
At what art thou gazing 
With thy yearning eyes? 

Spirit of flowering-soul! 
Thou showering heart! 

From there thou comest to there 

Thou goest ~ 

Away, thou ghost! Away, 

Thou longing shadow! Away! 

Why thou hovering around me still? Away! 

(Sagano takes the Scroll of sonnets composed and 
chanted in former scene) 

Ah, this track of my dream. 
Which I perfumed before the altar 
Of Eternal Woman! 
Oh, Heavenly Spirit, guide me! 

1 am standing on the threshold 
Between darkness and Light! 
Even to behold I tremble. 
Thou my Scroll of human love! 

(He advances towards the grave of the philosopher. ) 

Step by step 

My feet bring me to the grave, 

Night by night 

My life shorter than before; 

A candle that burns at deep night, 

A foam on rolling wave, 

A flower in stormy field. 

Ah me! is this human life? 


I faced my face to the waning moon, 
She answered me in sadness, 

Eternal silence! 
Wept and weeping I gazed on the flower 
That smiled on the grave; 
She whispered me in the stillness, 

Eternal Now!— 
Thou invisible friend. 
Strangely thy spirit draws me here. 
Where art thou wandering now 
Under such pale ghostly moon light? 
Art thou listening to my voice? 
Tell me of thy silent world, 
Come and speak to mie, 
Let me see into thy penetrating eyes, 
Glimmering under the heavy brow. 
Open thy tightened mouth. 
Art thou gazing at me? 
Art thou speaking to me? 
Where is thy scornful lip? 
Didst thou not scorn the moon, 
While thy soul was wandering 
With the dust of earth? 
Saying 'Thou planet, 
Charm not the children of earth 
V/ith thy magnetic light! 


Thou false light, brought infinite woe 
Into the world/' 

Where is thy scorning mouth now 
While the scorned moon cradles thy grave 
In her soft light? 

I remember when thou and I wandered 
In Spring field, 

Gazing at the human blooming valley; 
Thy hated voice still murmuring in my ear- 
' 'Woe unto the human 
Flowering- Love- valley !'' 
Ah, yet still beauteous flower. 
Here beside thy stone pillow 
Watching silently, 

As earth-mother cares the beloved child 
At her side! 

Oh my friend, art thou still scorning? 
Tell me, what is death? 
I astray between Birth and Death— 
I more than ghost- 
Why thy voice charms me still. — 
This, my Song, 
I perfume before thy soul- (Burns scroll) 

(Moisture of earth rising takes the horrible shape 
of the As-ghost, --smoke rising) 

Oh, thou blood-red tongue of Inferno! 


(Red light flashes) AsheS of thoUght, 

Thou blaek ashes of love, 
Where art thou flying with homeless wind? 
Oh, my friend, 
I hear thy laughing voice 
From bosom of grave- 
Yet still- Ah what- Ah what!- 
I see in dancing flame of Hell- 
There! there !-beckoning hand- 
My heart captured! 
I see myriad beautiful white flames 
Of immortal Woman, 
Beckoning v/ith flickering light - 
Still I hear thy mocking voice! 
My mind dungeoned in thy cold stone vault 
Of Philosophy. 

I hear another voice from above, 
'Thou art eternal journey from birth 
Of Inferno to death of Grave/' 
V/hy remember thou not, 
Birth and Death only a drop from His pen? 
Here, I, amazed- 
Even the moon hides her face 
In doubtful clouds. 
Oh, thou fire of love still burning 


(Last breath of fire flames forth) 

Within my soul burning love-fire, 

More and more; 

Within my heart sounding the rythm 

Of my song! 

Away! Away, thou blackened thought! 

Away from me! 

Oh, help! help! 

Spirit of my friend, I invoke. 

How deep imprinted in my whitened soul 

Red bloody characters, 

Oh scroll! scroll! 

My song! my song! 

Why thou sounding around me 

In the air invisible? 

Silence, silence! 

Ah, ah thy burned thoughts issue 

From the lips of silence! 

Let me go from thee. 

Do not open the scroll before my eyes! 

Let me escape, escape! 

Help, help, friend! 

Oh, I am the living scroll! 

Within me thou livest, my song! 

Must I burn my body. 

This dust of earth? 

Oh, my friend, art thou happy? 
My sense falHng, 
Let me come to thee. 
To thy calm silent home! 

(He falls prostrate on the grave) 

Gong strikes two. 


Scene II 

(Music judgment. Moon-night, a ruined abbey 
b3^ the sea, boundless meadow stretching into the 
distance, autumn leaves scattering in the moonlight 
Sagano silently enters with bended head and thought- 
ful step. Leaves showering upon his earthy shadow 
he looks up, gazing awhile at the falling leaves) 

Ah, falling leaves, 

Are ye the tears of autumn? 

Ah, my figure. 

More than the falling leaves 

Or tears of autumn! 

Oh careless wind. 

Is this the dream of floating world? 

(He looks around at the abbey) 

How oft in youth I wandered here 

(Gazing at half-rnined shrine on which a candle 
is burning.) 

How often I have knelt before thy shrine! 

What a change, v/hat a change! 

Oh, my figure, my figure. 

Sadder than the ruined abbey! 

Look yonder in the twilight, under the tree 

My infant figure wandering still! 


There, ah there! 

It is only the track of my dream. 

Ah, such a change, such a change! 

(A shepard boy passes, playing his flute. Sagano 
pauses awhile with eyes closed.) 

What a warbhng voice echoing in the vaults 
Of the ruined abbey in my mind. 

(Then he looks towards the dark forest) 

Oh thou virgin forest 
In the silvery moonlight, 
Thy praying hands beckoning, 
Ah, who can pluck my love-dream 
Which I left under thy beckoning sleeves? 
Is my dream still living in my heart? 
Am I breathing still that vaporing love? 
Am I drinking the richer nectar of love? 
Come, thou everlasting beauteous woman 
And let me play again 
On thy immortal harp! 

(Red light flashes in dark forest and beauteous 
figure of Saarashi appeals, her shape slowly fading 
into the darkness again.) 

She hid away from my sight 
In the white mist of my vision 
Yet she left her shadow in my soul- 
As ghostly wind passing away 


Into the dreamy forest of night. 
Am I dream or music? 

(Anon starts the warbling melody in the far yon 
meadow, Sagano's head bows, his thought drunk- 
en in music. ) 

Why my tears flow 
With streaming silver sound of flute? 
Oh, thou drifting melody in the twilight, 
Thou moonlight sound of crystal stream! 
Why art thou painting the floating scene 
Of old memory before my eyes? 
Invisible painter thou art! 
Art thou sound of moon. 
Or the voice of sorrow? 
Judge me not, 
sweet music, 

Touching to strings of my heart. 
Sounding in secret vault of soul, 
Supping blood of my feeling 
In sweet memories: 
pain, painful sweet sound. 
Before thy presence garment 
Of my soul all torn! 
Behind thy shadow fling 
My heart all naked! 
Oh, where can I hide me~in tears? 


Remain ajone like living tomb, 

Why hast thou not taken my breath? 

Oh, cruel, sweet music, hunt me not, 

Forget me in sweet memories 

Of Eternal Silence! 

Oh, lonely music! 

Measure not my moment-rapture, 

Reaching with thy trembling hands. 

Oh, lonely sound! 

Hunt not my naked heart 

While I dancing with shadow 

Of falling petal! 

Oh, sound of loneliness! 

Embrace not my humbling soul 

With thy long gloomy arms. 

Oh, dark sound! 

Why art thou seeking me 

Like shadow of myself? 

Art thou hunting grave in me? 

Before thy presence, lonely music. 

Garment of my soul all torn! 

Behind thy shadow fling, 

My heart all naked ! 


To My Wife's Mother. 

Her life was music 

She dove into the Ocean of Death 

I^ike a white sea-bird! 





When I first read Dante I closed my eyes 
and saw a perfect picture of human Hf e. Three 
divisions, Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. 

Next time I read I closed my eyes and I 
heard the wailing sound of the eternal funeral 
of Inferno pacing toward the patient boundary 
of Purgatory, incalcuable dream-music, vibrat- 
ing, mingling, in Purgatory, pealing far distant 
athwart the nine strings, ascending into infi- 
nite silence. 

The third time — the dim figure of Dante 
floated into my vision. I saw the former picture 
and heard the same music mingling, I felt 
Dante's warm breath, I lost myself. I said ^^Am 
I, I or Dante?'' the picture vanished, the voice 
of Dante hushed, I remained alone, with the 
Divine Comedy, harp of God. 

Dante is musical painter of human life. 

How mirrors to the eyes of the orient, poet 
Dante's figure? Let us consider the gloomy 


shadow of ruined cathedral figure of Dante. Is 
it only his shadow astray in the virgin forest? 

Who is he? 

Deep moving sea of soul, mighty squadron 
of will phantomed in rolling mist of unknown 
ecstasy! wounded soul! 

We must get out of the old, labored style of 
writing. This is an electric age, and our form 
of literature must correspond to the spirit of the 
age,-- electric expression! Modern literature is 
tired of decorative expression, and naked soul 
to soul wants to unite in one beyond material 
pleasure, -see Rodin's ''Kiss'^ how wild! No 
moment, no time to express decoratively, but 
swift, electric expression, feeling swifter than 
lightning. Oscar Wilde is an electric writer. No 
doubt that he dose not spend time on useless 
description, but plunges into center of naked 
soul to soul. Such a man is wilde, such is the 
subject of ''Salome" and such is Maeterlink in 
''Joyzelle''. Modern Art deals with the breath 
of Nature, breath of Life. 



I,— the voice of Death-ghost, — 

Born with life; 

Grave is not my home, — 

My grave is human body. 

Pure maiden's heart is my bed; 

No one knows, so soundly I sleep there, — 

I awake by the sound of her wedding bell. 

I am deadly thirsty; slowly and eagerly my 
tongue tastes human blood. 

My dinner is a very simple meal, -no salad, 
no meat, just human blood I drink, but my 
thirst no ending. 

When I feel lonesome I mirror the horrible 
picture v/hich I call ''Shadow of death'' before 
the presence of human souls. 

Then men fear me, astonished by me, bow 
down their heads to God, while I smiling, they 
cry to God. I think my joke better than preach- 
er's sermon, but they always hate me, yet I in- 
tend not to be entirely bad. 

Hike meditation. I do not like voice of 
world at daytime, so I hide myself in bottomless 

bottom of love-sea and mediate there, some- 
times unworldly creatures (poets, philosophers 
all kinds of thinkers) come to my place, and I 
silently invite them, welcome them, and I show 
them hov/ great is my eternal silent domain. 

They cannot see me where I am, though 
thy can feel me a little bit. I have not shape. 

Everywhere I go I am free. Without per- 
mission I quietly walk among them.. They feel 
me, but thy cannot scent the track of my feet. I 
walk swifter than lightning. In less than a mo- 
ment I round the world. Here I am, but I know 
who are dying, far distant or near, among the 
numberless human bodies on earth. 

Long ago Buddha came to my domain and 
asked me, ''What is death?" I taught him a ht- 
tle in the silence, the wordless, secret doctrine. 
He was pleased, and he called it ''Nirvana". He 
very little understands me, but he is the best 
interpreter of me among men. He is one of the 
best of my disciples. Once a little later Christ 
came, knocked at my door, but I did not open 
my portal, for it seemed to me he did not like 
me. But at last he came through my back-door 
very unnaturally. I was so sorry for him, — he 
did not like me. He is not here in my domain; 


he is the only man after death that did not stay 
with me. I Hke Buddha very much. I think he is 
broader than Christ; Christ higher than Bud- 
dha. Darkness is my Hght; twihght shadows es- 
pecially I am fond, I like living creatures. One 
inch they grow, same time one inch my domain 
grows. Growing is dying; dying is growing. 

My friend, a poor farmer poet (so called) 
sang about me: 
Step by step 

My feet bring me to the grave; 
Night by night 

My life shorter than before. 
A candle that bums at deep night; 
A foam on the rolling wave; 
A flower in stormy field. 

Ah me, is this human life! 
I faced my face to the waning moon; 
She answered me in the sadness; 

''Eternal silence.'' 
Wept and weeping, 
I gazed at the flower 
That smiled on the grave, 
She whispered me in the stillness: 

''Eternal now, eternal now.'' 
Perhaps he does not understand me much ; 

nobody understands me perfectly. Ah, even 
myself! But sometime in eternalless eternity I 
may understand myself perfectly; until then I 
keep my secret for coming pleasure. 

Once Confucius disciple asked him, ''What 
is death"? He answered him, ''How can you 
understand death without knowing life'7 I 
think it wisest answer I overheard. He knows 
me a little. 

I talk too much myself, tonight. I hear 
the first cock crowing; I see the night shadow 
melting into the creation-dawn. Fm hungry 
now; 'tis my supper time. Let me drink human 
blood; let me see naked souls kissing! 

I spread my wings of death, and I soar to 
the nest of human rest, where the webs of life 
webbing — ah, sweet! 

I drink — I drunken — till the scarlet, bloody 
sun fades into the whitened day! 

Why the Before or the After? 
I, a moment of the two — night melting 
into morn! 



Tolstoi wrote with his blood. He is the best 
commentator on Christ, on the New Testament; 
same rank as Dante, Goethe, Shakespeare, 

Tolstoi's criticism of Shakespeare as being 
no genious, but one who knew how to fit the 
stage, is true from Tolstoi's standpoint of 
* 'What is art. '' Tolstoi did not write for plea- 
sure or how to suit the people's mind. He did 
not intend to write the commentary of the new 
Testament, but it seems to my eyes that He 
has. Indeed it is an unconscious commentary of 
the Bible! 

Shakespeare tried to fit his writing to the 
stage, to make a curio and please the people's 
mind. But Tolstoi was forced to write; his pen 
moved for the poor the same as Christ opened 
his mouth for the sinner. He did not try to 
show the people a drama, in his later works, but 
lived one. He acted his teaching, as did Christ 
and Buddha. Tolstoi's life is like Buddha's 
life, while v/e read Tolstoi we cannot laugh ; 
while reading, unconsciously the garment of 


my soul becomes orderly, I know not why. 

From Tolstoi's standpoint even Shakes- 
peare looks like a cunning rascal; as Shakes- 
peare sometimes fools the people, but Tolstoi 
never; so that the people could not fool Tolstoi. 
Everything returns whatever is thought, or 
conceived, or spoken. 

In Tolstoi's work there is no cunning, but 
in Shakespeares — ! From this point of view, 
Shakespeare is more of an artist than Tolstoi, 
as art must be something added to nature. Tol- 
stoi has not time to add. In this case Tolstoi 
more natural artist, bigger artist; Shakespeare 
conscious artist; - Dante higher, Tolstoi broad- 
er, Milton stronger (in poetic form.) 

Ibsen and Shakespeare pretty well match- 
ed (not quality but power equal.) I think Tolstoi 
is above them, in character. Ibsen mirrored the 
extreme weak points of human character whicli 
are, at the same time, the strong points. In 
"Hidda Gabler" and ''Ghosts'* for instance, — 
too extreme! Ibsen is the great surgeon of 
modern literature. He deeply touch the spirit 
of the Twentieth Century, — the spirit of 
extreme independence. 

Tolstoi says Shakespeare is not a great 


artist. Of course, this depends upon what 
ground one stands, — reHgious, worldly 
grounds, etc. Shakespeare is broader; Tolstoi 
higher than Wagner or Shakespeare in religious 
strength. Shakespeare may be wider and Wag- 
ner better combiner. Tolstoi moral, mental 
anarchist of the exterior world. -physical world. 
Maeterlinck internal, metaphysical anarchist, — 
psychological, esthetical. 

''Tolstoi might, with advantage, return 
to his art,'' says Arnold, yet I say Tolstoi's 
art was ''going to the peasant and digging." 
Of course with the solid English idea, Arnold 
is right but not anarchist and Russian — 
Tolstoi's idea greater than Arnold's — ''digg- 
ing" is his true art — I admire Tolstoi,— a 
gi^eat statue of perfect personality of Russia. I 
admire Arnold- great critic of art in England. 
Both great, but standpoint different. Arnold's 
criticism of Tolstoi's commandment's of Christ 
is an entire mistake— for Tolstoi stands as 
Moses in the old Testament and Arnold stands 
on the ground of the New Testament and criti- 
cises. That is entirely different. Of course 
when Christ came Christianity was perfected, 
but not in Old Testament. Russia is like the 


Old Testament, the age of Moses. Second 
reason is that Tolstoi sacrificed for the peo- 
ple, not explaining the perfect idea of Christ- 
ianity, the genius of it, but the practical en- 
tirely. Arnold stands for the scholastic critic- 
ism. Third point, Tolstoi is the friend of the 
poor and guide for them. He has two sceptres, 
one to crush the tyrant, the other to guide and 
direct the poor, so the commandments are 
simply to show them how to go. 

Tolstoi's ''digging with his peasants" is his 
best art. Tolstoi is the nineteenth century Mos- 
es in Russia. Tolstoi guiding his people into 
another land, spiritual, poetic anarchist land, 
is the same as Moses guiding his people from 
Egypt into the Holy land, like Moses, pointing 
the way. 

Arnold's Dante is an artist but not his Tols- 
toi. Behind Arnold is an immovable rock of 
truth, when sword cuts the earth, at bottom 
is this gi^eat impenetrable rock of his personal- 




To me Shakespeare's tragedy seems like 
real comedy, so comedy is real tragedy. Ex- 
ample; King Lear — above the level of hon- 
esty — is comic. The taste of tragedy feels to my 
tongue of literature too honest from this stand- 
point. Now look at the figure of Lear, what a 
damn lionest fool! Nothing at all cunning 
in his head, nothing of the craft of the wise. 

Great humorist must be great sorrowful 
Man (past sorrowful life); example, Mark 
Twain. When tragedy becomes comedy, there 
is true tragedy. Tragedy blending into com- 
edy, — beyond the boundary of both realm.s, 
there is true comedy and true tragedy. 

Why did Shakespeare separate comxedy 
and tragedy? Divine Comedy, that is a good 
name! Why was it called the Divine Come- 
dy? Therein lies the meaning of my idea.— 

(The Ori5,'-in of title of Dante's work is not of concern 

Greatest comedians were Christ and Bud- 

dha. Yes, every great man looks like comedy. 
My definition of comedy is unbalanced, extreme 
honesty. Vaudeville comedians are not real 
comedians — true comedy and true tragedy are 
neighbors. Tolstoi is one belonging to the com- 
edy class. We cannot separate tragedy and 
comedy shape. 


While the poet dignifies and godif ies him- 
self in clouds, the people treat him as a curio. 
^ The blind leading the blind/' 


Shakespeare condensed idea in form 
(dramatic ability) and showed clearly to the 
people. He spreads perfect picture or miiTor 
of the world before us. We see the characters 
and plot develope under our eyes. In the be- 
ginning he gathers here and there substances 
and builds a perfect edifice showing the peo- 
ple the complete work, the judgment. The op- 
posite with Goethe; — in the beginning Goethe 
illumes before our eyes the complete world of 
human life, the middle is all broken into pieces, 
and the end guides us into the mystic world. 
His theme melts into the air, the universe. 
Shakespeare never leaves judgment to the next 
world, but judges here. In Shakespearean plays 
God has nothing to do, all characters being 
judged in the last act, pleasing the people of 
the age. Shakespeare gives severe punishment 
to the Devil; Goethe just lets him go. 
Shakespeare wi^ote for world's judgment, -and 
Goethe for supreme power. — Goethe farther 


advanced. He believed in the imrnortai power 
even of beauty — Goethe gives new breath, 
which is his own, to whatever he touches, for 
instance, — in 'Taust," he takes ''Helena,'' — 
already funeraled by the stone hand of theolog- 
ians, — and how marvelously he breathes into 
this apparition of Greek beauty new breath of 
life! What a sublime scene when Helena's 
earthly shadow melts into mystic air! Here 
Goethe immortalizes elemental beauty, — blend- 
ing it into the atmosphere of scientific liter- 
ature. It is also interesting to study Goethe's 
'Taust" as ''Nineteenth Century Job." 

I do not consider "Faust" as a drama — 
maybe unconscious drama. I see in it, Goethe's 
own wonderful philosophy, which is skilfully 
and beautifully expressed in dramatic form. 
I never read such a deep philosophy closely re- 
lated to human life, tuned to such musical 

Genius, before creation sees the unutter- 
able vague of chaos floating before its eyes, 
then soon fades away like false dav/n before 
daylight. In this moment. Genius loses itself 
in selfless emotion and then true creation 


comes. First false light scatters and is lost, 
but soon true daylight comes. Genius gathers 
forms and creates new creation and gives the 
breath of broad daylight and sunshine. First 
sunk into the bigness of choas and then soars 
to the highest heaven of mighty ego and gath- 
ers and shapes new world of open mystery. 
Amiel first charms people in his magic air of 
false shadow of creation but after daylight his 
shadow disappears. Goethe has both sides, the 
two sides of Genius. 

Beyond Anarchy, beyond Imperialism, em- 
bracing them, there is my domain, — boundless, 
limitless, unbroken plain! In ghostly shadow, in 
divine clouds, — there my Mighty Self -Tower 
stands, — gazing upon tightened thoughts with 
pitying eyes! 

Christ but a Spiritual Imperialist, Buddha 

but a Spiritual Anarchist; — in my Peculiar 

Domain they are One! True Imperialism and 

true Anarchism never against each other: — 

— Everything different therefore one. — 



Morality is the color of the time — changes 
with the waves of civilization. Philosophically 
it is convenience. Spiritually it is the reflect- 
ion of truth. Changing, yet unchangeable, 
like the ocean, surface always moving, yet 
the sea remains unchangeable. 

Some believe Morality is absolute truth. 
Catching the sparkle of the truth of the age, 
they catch the changing figure of the waves 
and say, ''This is the changeless Morality", 
but, when the sea- wind of the current of the 
time ceases, nothing remains but the smooth 
mirror of the sea. 

We must find the secrecy beyond Moral- 
ity. What relation has Morality to truth, to 
God? Is not Morality the instrument in the 
hand of Spirit? 

If the Spirit does not move, Morality is 
a useless instrument. 

Behind Morality there is a mighty pow- 
er that moves, that uses this instrument, a 
burning spirit working within it. 

What is it cultivating, with this instru- 

ment, in the ^ soil of human characer? What 
is it forging on the anvil of human soul? 
What is it creating in the heart of genius- 
cultivating through ages,— forging, creating, 

Instrument sometimes broken or worn out, 
too old, unfit for use, then new Instrument of 
Morality must come. Though shape or color 
change, instrumicnt is instrument. 

Many people are blinded by the color of 
the time, — the instrument, ^they do not see 
behind, the working power, the mover. We 
must cast behind us, when the time has come, 
the old Morality, we must not hesitate. At 
last Morality is simply a convenience of hu- 
man life; we must use it for convenience sake, 
but power alone can move this convenient in- 
strument, but if we use it in unwise, unskilfuU 
way, terrible disaster Vv^ill be the result, in a 
good way, wonderful good results. 

We, the men of the earth, are farmers. 
With the instrument of Morality, we cultivate 
the soil of character, of mind, well, rich, fine, 
for planting. But they are foolish men who 
are willing to suicide with Morality, and sac- 
rifice their higher manhood. Use instrument, 


I say, scientific, advanced instrument. 

Everything advances tov^ard perfection, 
not only Morality. 

Casting behind old ideas, garments, 
every day new ones. 

But unchanging is the power. Working man, 
farmer, dies, and instrument wears out, but 
power still there. This power, when it shines, 
appears as the sun, moon, stars or other plan- 
ets. When this power moves on the face of 
the waters, it appears as perfect love and light, 
and reflects the whole w^orld, all planets, the 
universe, myi'iad colors;— these are the steps 
of power, the waves of history. 

This power weaves the beautiful fabric of 
Morality, according to the base of this power, 
according to this power's age and time. 

Ah, at last! Morality is the instrument of 
God, changing, unchangeable, — a shadow, or 
color of powder. 


This is Woman's age! 

The barbaric age pretty near its ending. 

Barbaric beauty represents Man ; Women 
represent softened beauty. 

War warrior, bloodshed, belong to wild 

Soft beauty is the very center of soul or 
spirit, breath of creation, conception, nature 
of every element, delicate, refined. 

In creation, as in Genesis, matter is ciass- 
ified thus — chaos, land, water, beast, fowl, 
man; very last cration — woman. 

Woman stands or is born for beauty; man 
for truth. 

But beauty is warmer than truth, also em- 
braces it. 

Beauty touches more human life ~ yet 
more ethereal-delicate-than truth. 

Truth is heavy. 

If Truth is a stone. Beauty is the moss. 

Soft beauty embraces hard truth, as in hu- 
man beings. 

The foundation of the house of humanity is 

already built, inside is being beautified —the 
dawn of Woman's age. Later ideal Man and 
Woman shall dwell there! 

After two or three thousand years, Wo- 
man's age being over, then shall come great 
waves of equal age, — ideal Man and Woman. 

This is Beauty Age, not Barbaric age. 

Poetry belongs to Woman. Philosophy be- 
longs to man. 

Too much philosophy is very cold, but 
foundation of poetry is philosophy. Foundation 
of philosophy is poetry, — therefore we want 
an equality. Foundation of Woman is Man, 
but at the same time Man is born from Woman. 
Great rolling waves of Man's barbaric age ceas- 
ing; the soft beauty of God, Woman's age com- 
ing! Woman shall guide the current of the 

Awake, Woman! The world is advancing 
toward your warm, soft civilzation. 

We are passing the barbaric civilation of 
Manhood, -fighting, wild education, dying. 

But your electric education awaking, ap- 

Art thou not the tomb of love and light? 

Woman thou art the soil of the celestial 


kingdom, whereon grows the Holy Tree. But, 
Ah eternal woman, who planted that tree and 
who opened thy heavenly gate? Man! the Man! 
Half of thy soul eternal Man. Eternal Man 
unites with eternal Woman, thus comes the 
perfect one. 

Indeed the Poet of Weimar's soul was in- 
spired by supreme Womanhood. 

I stretch my hand to thee. Seer of Weimar. 
I honor thy mystic pen which guided the soul 
of Faust into the celestial heaven, by the 
fragrance of a plucked flower. 

Woman! Woman! What mysterous being 
thou art! 

Even to utter thy name I tremble. 
What joyous love-light, conceived in thy chaos 

Wonderful, generous giver, thou Woman. 
Thou opened the mystic gate of Resurrection. 
Art thou not the tombed God? 

Who first beheld the resurrection of Christ? 
Not strong Peter, but the softened eyes of 
Mary. Consider her figure. What charming 
power brought her delicate feet, o'er the rough 
path to the tomb? 

Did she not know the heavy stone was 


impossible to move with her willow hand? Be- 
fore she weeping arrived, the tomb gate 

What a strong faith, hope, love dwelt in 
her delicate earthly form! She was the first 
who saw the light of resurrection. 

On, Woman, everlasting Woman! Thou 
art the gate of Heaven; Peter hath the key, 
well let Man open it. 

Who brought forth this immortal singer 
into the world? This Great love-light issued 
from unlocked portals of everlasting Woman- 
hood. This heavenly poet! Man of sorrows! 

Ah, indeed! The Bard of Florence per- 
fumed his illumined soul before the altar of 
Eternal Woman in the immovable heaven. 

Who destroyed the pure character of Mar- 
guerite? It was the man Faust. Who guided 
his soul into celestial heaven? It was she, re- 
presentative Woman, Marguerite. 

Who guided great poet Dante's soul into 
the Ninth heaven? Beatrice, — everlasting wo- 
manhood! Who opened the Portal of Dream! 


Wounded Lion, howling toward the dead moon, 
Funeraled by the anxious clouds of doubt; 
Glittering his eye — 
Flickering, softened by dreadful pain ; 
Now groaning against the dark sound 

of ebbing tide. 
Calling His dead mates; 
Gazing toward the gloomy beckoning hand 

of Fate. 
Sudden turned to eastward, where floats 
The scene of ''bravest battle" of past shadow 

of hfe. 
List, far yon billow! 
Dark sound of ghostly waves dashing 

against shore of Hfe! 

Aged Dragonish Pine falls on Mother Earth, 

With sounding stormy wind of life. 

Ah! where is now thy martial arm that held 

Ever swaying currents of the time? 
Where art thou now sailing in vessel of Death. 
With thv hoary beard tossing against 

ghostly wind, 
That wafts to the Unknown Strand, 
SaiHng ''on and on"? 
Bravest soul ever fought in stormy field, 
Gone with parting voice of ebbing tide, 
V/hile sound of evening gong wailing. 
Gone, gone to the Eternal Land. 
Bravest soul sails on. 

His soul, as eagle, flew from martial sleeve 

of Dying Pine. 
Flying on wings of Death; 
Miles million in a moment soars. 
Glaring his fire-eye! 
Soaring, sailing '^n and on"- 
Through the clouds 
To the bottomless, boundless, limitless realm 

of eternal silent song. 
Where starry mates throng. 
Bravest Eagle-soul, 
Soaring upward— on! 

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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