|Come join me in regrets for the passing of spring
And wisteria now aglow in the evening light.
|I grope my way through the gathering shades of evening
With no great hopes of coming upon wisteria.
|Let us blame the wisteria, of too pale a hue,
Though the pine has let itself be overgrown.
|Tears have obscured the blossoms these many springs,
And now at length they open full before me.
|Wisteria is like the sleeve of a maiden.
Lovelier when someone cares for it.
|So shallow a river, flowing out to sea.
Why did so stout a fence permit it to pass?
|Shallowness was one, but only one,
Among the traits that helped it pass the barrier.
|Do not reprove me for the dripping sleeves
The whole world sees. I weary of wringing them dry.
|This sprig of―what is it called?―this sprig in my cap.
So long it has been, I cannot think of the name.
|The scholar armed with laurel should know its name.
He wears it, though he may not speak of it.
|Did you suspect by so much as a mist of dew
That the azure bloom would one day be a deep purple?
|What mist of dew could possibly fail to find it,
Though pale its hue, in so eminent a garden?
|Clearest of brooks, you guard these rocks, this house.
Where has she gone whose image you once reflected?
|We see the image no more. How is it that
These pools among the rocks yet seem so happy?
|The ancient pine is gone. That need not surprise us―
For see how gnarled and mossy is its seedling.
|I now am shaded by two splendid trees
Whose roots were intertwined when they were seedlings.
|Though time has deepened the hue of the bloom at the hedge,
I do not forget how sleeve brushed sleeve that autumn.
|A purple cloud is this chrysanthemum,
A beacon star which shines upon us all.
|This aged peasant has known many autumn showers
And not before seen finer autumn colors.
|Think you these the usual autumn colors?
Our garden brocade imitates an earlier one.