Fragrance, and I glimpse glory decline and pass;
a slanting wind drives the fine rain to the window cloth.
The last glow of the crab apple is a kingdom of bees,
the fresh green of the weeping willow a swallow's house.
Inside the curtain it's scented, with spring dreams warm;
out in the garden, with no moon, night's sentiments expand.
Yet, however I try, I cannot free myself from idle loneliness;
alone I light a lamp and write a poem on fallen blossoms.