I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart;
I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.
A PANG OF REMINISCENCE [p. xxiv]
High and smaller goes the moon, she is small and very far from me,
Wistful and candid, watching me wistfully, and I see
Trembling blue in her pallor a tear that surely I have seen before,
A tear which I had hoped that even hell held not again in store.
A WHITE BLOSSOM [p. xxv]
A tiny moon as white and small as a single jasmine flower
Leans all alone above my window, on night’s wintry bower,