A stem of grass, whereon in vain
A dragon fly essayed to light!

O N A B ATTLE-FIELD

Haply the summer grasses are
A relic of the warrior's dream.

The year has closed while still I wear
My sandals and my pilgrim's hat.

Coming this mountain way, no herb
Is lovelier than the violet.

She wraps up rice-cakes, while one hand
Restrains the hair upon her brow.

The end of autumn, and some rooks
Are perched upon a withered branch.