|Through many a spring we plucked these shoots for him.
Today remembrance bids us do as well.
|And to whom shall I show these early ferns from the mountain,
Plucked in remembrance of one who is no more?
|This branch seems much in accord with him who breaks it.
I catch a secret scent beneath the surface.
|I should have been more careful with my blossoms
I offer fragrance, get imputations back.
|How quickly time does pass. You made and donned
Your mourning robes, and now the blossoms open.
|Here where no visitor comes save only the tempest,
The scent of blossoms brings thoughts of days now gone.
|The fragrance lasts of the plum my sleeve has brushed.
Uprooted now, must it dwell m a distant land?
|Tears came first. I should have flung myself into
A stream of tears that would not have left me behind.
|Deep though one plunges into the river of tears,
One comes upon occasional snags of remembrance.
|And there they are, so busy getting ready,
And wet are the sleeves of the solitary fishwife.
|Is it drier, my sleeve, than the brine-wet sleeve of the fishwife?
Sodden it is, from the waves upon which it floats.
|You have lived to come upon these joyous days,
And are you not glad Old Gloomy* did not get you?
|We do not forget to look back at one now gone;
But this day, of ail, our hearts must look ahead.
|The moon comes forth from the mountain upon a world
That offers no home. It goes again to the mountain.
|The boat setting forth on the undulant Lake of Loons,
Though badly rigged, did somehow make a landfall.