when we thought that nothing could be more perfect than our little poems, and they are remarkable, in fact, but “for what they are not, rather than for what they are,” as W. C. Aston cleverly put it; indeed, wonderful in their felicity of phrase, melody of versification, and true sentiment, within their narrow limits. But that was ages ago. The Uta poets had been already for a long time a sort of dilettantes who did no small harm to the development of our Japanese poetry, which, under any circumstances, could not be left alone to be ruined. Modern Japan is the age of evolution and expansion; our poetry also began to undergo their influence. It would be more proper, however, to say that the Uta poets were left undisturbed with full freedom to stick to the original key if they wanted to, while the younger poets for themselves started a new form of poem called Shintaishi, meaning the new-styled poem, with larger scope and greatly increased resources; it is well-nigh reaching already to some achievement.
It is true that the simplicity of our old Uta poets was a source of charm and often surprise, and at the same time it was rather tragic for the poets to be forced to keep it up. They were obliged to make a completely unconditional surrender to the ancient form and thought, and to spin from the same old subjects. The changing seasons, the voice of a running stream, the
