Love
Methinks my tenderness the grass must be,
Clothing some mountain desolate and lone;
For though it daily grows luxuriantly,
To ev'ry mortal eye 'tis still unknown.
Yoshiki.
XXXIII
Love
Upon the causeway through the land of dreams
Surely the dews must plentifully light:—
For when I've wandered up and down all night,
My sleeve's so wet that nought will dry its streams.
XXXIV
Love
Fast fall the silv'ry dews, albeit not yet
'Tis autumn weather; for each drop's a tear,
Shed till the pillow of my hand is wet,
As I wake from dreaming of my dear.