He is going to the Tung T'ing Lake,

My friend whom I have loved so many years.

The Spring wind startles the willows

And they break into pale leaf.

I go with my friend

As far as the river-bank.

He is gone—

And my mind is filled and overflowing

With the things I did not say.

Again the white water flower

Is ripe for plucking.

The green, pointed swords of the iris

Splinter the brown earth.

To the South of the river

Are many sweet-olive trees.

I gather branches of them to give to my friend

On his return.