My Table

    Two heavy trestles， and a board

    Where Sato‘s gift， a changeless sword，

    By pen and paper lies，

    That it may moralise

    My days out of their aimlessness.

    A bit of an embroidered¹ dress

    Covers its wooden sheath.

    Chaucer had not drawn² breath

    When it was forged. In Sato‘s house，

    Curved like new moon， moon-luminous，

    It lay five hundred years.

    Yet if no change appears

    No moon； only an aching heart

    Conceives a changeless work of art.

    Our learned men have urged

    That when and where ‘twas forged

    A marvellous accomplishment³，

    In painting or in pottery⁴， went

    From father unto son

    And through the centuries ran

    And seemed unchanging like the sword.

    Soul‘s beauty being most adored，

    Men and their business took

    The soul‘s unchanging look；

    For the most rich inheritor，

    Knowing that none could pass Heaven‘s door

    That loved inferior art，

    Had such an aching heart

    That he， although a country‘s talk

    For silken clothes and stately walk，

    Had waking wits； it seemed

    Juno‘s peacock screamed.