The wind half blows her robes,
That subside
Listlessly
As swaying pines.
The wind tosses hers
In circles
That recoil upon themselves:
How should I love—as the swaying or tossing wind?
Kurenai-ye or "Red Picture"
She glances expectantly
Through the pine avenue,
To the cherry-tree summit
Where her lover will appear.
Faint rose anticipation colours her,
And sunset;
She is a cherry-tree that has taken long to bloom.