Again the larkspur, Heavenly blue in my garden. They, at least, unchanged.

How have I hurt you? You look at me with pale eyes, But these are my tears.

Morning and evening— Yet for us once long ago Was no division.

I hear many words. Set an hour when I may come Or remain silent.

In the ghostly dawn I write new words for your ears— Even now you sleep.

This then is morning. Have you no comfort for me Cold-colored flowers?

My eyes are weary Following you everywhere. Short, oh short, the days!

When the flower falls The leaf is no more cherished. Every day I fear.

Even when you smile Sorrow is behind your eyes. Pity me, therefore.

Laugh—it is nothing. To others you may seem gay, I watch with grieved eyes.

Take it, this white rose. Stems of roses do not bleed; Your fingers are safe.

As a river-wind Hurling clouds at a bright moon, So am I to you.

Watching the iris, The faint and fragile petals— How am I worthy?

Down a red river I drift in a broken skiff. Are you then so brave?

Night lies beside me Chaste and cold as a sharp sword. It and I alone.

Last night it rained. Now, in the desolate dawn, Crying of blue jays.

Foolish so to grieve, Autumn has its colored leaves— But before they turn?

Afterwards I think: Poppies bloom when it thunders. Is this not enough?

Love is a game—yes? I think it is a drowning: Black willows and stars.

When the aster fades The creeper flaunts in crimson. Always another!

Turning from the page, Blind with a night of labor, I hear morning crows.

A cloud of lilies, Or else you walk before me. Who could see clearly?

Sweet smell of wet flowers Over an evening garden. Your portrait, perhaps?

Staying in my room, I thought of the new Spring leaves. That day was happy.