'T was the moon-hidden of the Gods-absent month when I went there again for temporary residence. The thick grown leaves which had cast a dark shade were all fallen. The sight was heartfelt over all. The sweet, murmuring rivulet was buried under fallen leaves and I could see only the course of it.
Even water could not live on—
So lonesome is the mountain
Of the leaf-scattering stormy wind.
[At about this time the author of this diary seems to have had some family troubles. Her father received no appointment from the King—they were probably poor, and her gentle, poetic nature did not incline her to seek useful friends at court; therefore many of the best years of her youth were spent in obscurity—a great contrast to the "Shining-Prince" dreams of her childhood.]
I went back to Kioto saying that I should come again the next Spring, could I live so long, and begged the nun to send word when the flowering-time had come.
It was past the nineteenth of the Ever-growing month of the next year [1026], but there were no tidings from her, so I wrote:
No word about the blooming cherry-blossoms,
Has not the Spring come for you yet?
Or does the perfume of flowers not reach you?
I made a journey, and passed many a moonlit night in a house beside a bamboo wood. Wind rustled its leaves and my sleep was disturbed.
Night after night the bamboo leaves sigh,
My dreams are broken and a vague, indefinite sadness fills my heart.
In Autumn [1026] I went to live elsewhere and sent a poem:
I am like dew on the grass—
And pitiable wherever I may be—
But especially am I oppressed with sadness
In a field with a thin growth of reeds.