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Even the morris-dancers' steps
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Bit by a sorry mate, the cat
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And when the boatmen have made up
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Spring
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The Dew are all of one pale silv'ry white
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Serving the spirits of the dead
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Plum-blossoms! is it that the sap
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Oh! little butterfly, with wings
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The Brook of Hatsuse
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When from the skies, that wintry gloom enshrouds
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