Far through the night a harp is sighing
With a sadness of wind and rain in the strings.…
There's a solitary lantern, a bugle-call—
And beyond Terrace Tower down goes the moon.
… Fragrant grasses have changed and faded
While still I have been hoping that my old friend would come.…
There are no more messengers I can send him,
Now that the wildgeese have turned south.