To the study of her ever varying moods her Japanese admirer brings an impersonal adoration that combines oddly the aestheticism of a poet with the asceticism of a recluse.

Not that he worships in secret, however.

His passion is too genuine either to find disguise or seek display.

With us, unfortunately, the love of Nature is apt to be considered a mental extravagance peculiar to poets, excusable in exact ratio to the ability to give it expression.

For an ordinary mortal to feel a fondness for Mother Earth is a kind of folly, to be carefully concealed from his fellows.