For deep-sea moon shines year by year upon the land abroad;
And ye, O mountain clouds, may meet the form of my adored!
Aye, flying here and flying there, seek my beloved’s place,
And at ten thousand thousand miles—speed!—gaze on his fair face.
Alas! for me the road is long, steep mountain peaks now sever
Our loving souls. I can but weep—O! may’t not be forever!
The long reed’s leaves had yellow grown when we our farewell said;
Who then had thought the plum-tree’s bough so oft would turn to red?
The fairy flowers spreading their leaves have met the early spring—
Ah, genial months, what time for love!—But who can ease my sting?