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_Love_
The barest ledge of rock, if but a seed Alight upon it, lets the pine-tree grow:-- If, then, thy love for me be love indeed, We'll come together, dear; it must be so!
_Anon._
XXIX
_Love_
There is on earth a thing more bootless still Than to write figures on a running stream:-- And that thing is (believe me if you will) To dream of one who ne'er of you doth dream.
_Anon._
x.x.xI
_Love_
Since that first night when, bath'd in hopeless tears, I sank asleep, and he I love did seem To visit me, I welcome ev'ry dream, Sure that they come as heav'n-sent messengers.
_Komachi._
x.x.xII
_Love_
Methinks my tenderness the gra.s.s must be, Clothing some mountain desolate and lone; For though it daily grows luxuriantly, To ev'ry mortal eye 'tis still unknown.
_Yos.h.i.+ki._
x.x.xIII
_Love_
Upon the causeway through the land of dreams Surely the dews must plentifully light:-- For when I've wandered up and down all night, My sleeve's so wet that nought will dry its streams.
_Tsurayuki._
x.x.xIV
_Love_
Fast fall the silv'ry dews, albeit not yet 'Tis autumn weather; for each drop's a tear, Shed till the pillow of my hand is wet, As I wake from dreaming of my dear.
_Anon._
x.x.xV
_Love_
I ask'd my soul where springs th' ill-omened seed That bears the herb of dull forgetfulness;[155]
And answer straightway came:--Th' accursed weed Grows in that heart which knows no tenderness.
_Sosei._
x.x.xVI
_Elegies_[156]
So frail our life, perchance to-morrow's sun May never rise for me. Ah! well-a-day!
Till comes the twilight of the sad to-day, I'll mourn for thee, O thou beloved one!
_Tsurayuki._
x.x.xVII
_Elegies_
The perfume is the same, the same the hue As that which erst my senses did delight:-- But he who planted the fair avenue Is here no more, alas! to please my sight!
_Tsurayuki._
x.x.xVIII
_Elegies_
One thing, alas! more fleeting have I seen Than wither'd leaves driv'n by the autumn gust:-- Yea, evanescent as the whirling dust Is man's brief pa.s.sage o'er this mortal scene!
_Chisato._
x.x.xIX
Softly the dews upon my forehead light:-- From off the oars, perchance, as feather'd spray, They drop, while some fair skiff bends on her way Across the Heav'nly Stream[157] on starlit night.
_Anon._
