And the blossoming wild grapes are sweeter than wine;
Tall trees rise above us, four bridges are past,
And my stroke’s running slow as the current runs fast—
Cool and gray is the river.
Smooth and black is the river, no sound as we float
Save the soft-lapping water in under the boat.
The white mists are rising, the moon’s rising too,
And Venus, triumphant, rides high in the blue.
I hold the shawl round her, her hand is in mine,
And we drift under grape-blossoms sweeter than wine—