the clouds of heaven, so gradual must have been the rise of poetry.
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"In the present day love has seduced men's hearts into a fondness for ornament. Hence nothing is produced but frivolous poetry without depth of feeling. In the houses of those given to a life of gallantry, poetry is like a tree buried in the ground and unknown to men; while with more serious people it is regarded as a flowering suzuki[1] which will never bear ears of grain. If we consider its origin, this ought not to be. The Mikados of former times, on a morning when the spring flowers were in blossom, or on a night when the autumn moon was shining, used to send for their courtiers and demand from them verses suitable to the occasion. Some would represent themselves as wandering in trackless places in search of the flowers they loved; others would describe their groping in the guideless dark and longing for the moon. The Mikado would then examine all such fancies, and pronounce this to be clever, that to be stupid.
"Or else they wished prosperity to their lord, using the metaphors of pebbles[2] or of Mount Tsukuba.[3] When joy was too much for them, when their hearts overflowed with pleasure, when they felt their love to be eternal as
