Tell me, could I have foreseen
Or known what a heap of my writings
Should lie at the end of her shaft-bench?
CHORUS
A hundred nights and more
Of twisting, encumbered sleep,
And now they make it a ballad,
Not for one year or for two only
But until the days lie deep
As the sand's depth at Kefu,
Until the year's end is red with Autumn,
Red like these love-wands,
A thousand nights are in vain.
And I stand at this gate-side.
You grant no admission, you do not show yourself
Until I and my sleeves are faded.
By the dew-like gemming of tears upon my sleeve,
Why will you grant no admission?
And we all are doomed to pass,
You, and my sleeves and my tears.
And you did not even know when three years had come to an end.
Cruel, ah cruel!
The charm-sticks....
SHITE
Were set up a thousand times;
Then, now, and for always.
CHORUS Shall I ever at last see into that room of hers, which no other sight has traversed?
SHITE
Happy at last and well-starred,
Now comes the eve of betrothal:
We meet for the wine-cup.
CHORUS
How glorious the sleeves of the dance,
That are like snow-whirls!