  Softly the bamboo bends As the sun sinks down unglowing, Softer the willow ends A sigh to the dusk around. Quickly the brief bat wends His flittering way, thro flowing Fields of the autumn air, That are husht of the city's sound. Temple and thatch and stream Are forgetting the light that lingers, Mountain and mist in dream Already are lost, afar. Faintingly comes the beam Of the moon—then viewless fingers Tinkle a samisen, And astir on the East is a star. |
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