The harmonies of the robes of this gay lady
Are like chants within a temple sweeping outwards
To the morn.
But I prefer the song of the wind by a stream
Where a shy lily half hides itself in the grasses;
To the night of clouds and stars and wine and passion,
In a palace of tesselated restraint and splendor.
A Night Festival
Sparrows and tame magpies chatter
In the porticoes
Lit with many a lantern.
There is idle song,
Scandal over full wine cups,
Sorrow does not matter.
Only beyond the still grey shoji
For the breadth of innumerable countries,
Is the sea with ships asleep
In the blue-black starless night.