A Japanese Fan

Is it so warm in old Japan?
Do flowers flaunt out such riot glare?
Hangs that soft, golden mist so low?
Ah me, ah me, to journey there!

Inked out against the yellow glow
One sharp peak rises, blackly bare;
A stately swan steers up the sky—
Ah me, ah me, to journey there!

And see her as she furls her fan!
Was ever lady half so fair?
She beckons to me with her eyes—
Ah me, ah me, to journey there!

Were ever feet so dainty small?
Was ever coiled such shining hair?
Her hands are like curled lily-buds—
Ah me, ah me, to journey there!

Fan-pictured, dear Japan, thy calm
Fills us of West with dull despair!
(The palm-leaves sift the sunlight through)
Ah me, ah me, to journey there!