"To the mountain, to cut me a fagot, I'll
hie,
While you, O Koyo, the linen can wash
In the river which rushes and gurgles by."
Oh! the merry old man to the mountain hied,
Past young rice-fields in the morning sun,
Toward the dark fir-trees on the mountain side,
Standing forth in its silence, every one.
From wild camellias and white plum-trees,
In his twinkling old eyes the spider-webs