The city I love is in Japan,
With streets spread out like a lady's fan;
High towers of porcelain, white and blue,
O'ertop the cottages of bamboo.
Pagodas lacquered enchant my eye,
Their kaolin steeples pierce the sky.
Rare birds, with plumage all gold and red,
Chirp sweetest melodies o'er my head.
Strange idols, carved, of costume quaint,
Grin blandly on me from out their paint.
A music, not sad, yet dreamy, swells:
Its rhythm keeps time with silv'ry bells.


My lovely idol is hidden here,
With inch-long eyes and a gaze sincere;
Her feet are so small she cannot walk,
Her breast is as white as snow or chalk;
Her laugh is like sunshine, full of glee,
And her sweet breath smells like fresh-made tea.