Perched upon the temple-bell, the butterfly sleeps:
Even while sleeping, its dream is of play—ah, the butterfly of the grass!
Many insects there are that call from the dawn to evening,
Crying “I love! I love!”—but the Firefly’s silent passion,
Making its body burn, is deeper than all their longing.
Even such is my love ....
The following poem, says the editor, was written more than eleven hundred years ago on the death of the poet’s little son:
As he is so young, he cannot know the way.
.... To the messenger of the Underworld I will give a bribe,
and entreat him, saying: “Do thou kindly take the little one upon thy