Plum blossoms snowing on West Island—remember?
Now the plum trees are in blossom again, but he's up north.
Why not send him a spray? Yes, send him a spray.
Remember the apricots ripening? Blushful beauty in summer dress, her hair the envy of raven fledglings.
Remember the place? West Island is not far off. But to row over there of an evening, only to find the shrikes wheeling low and the wind sighing in the trees—ah!
The trees—do they know? Those in front of her house might notice the door open quietly in the morning,
the would-be-happy maiden appear and, not finding the one awaited, make for the lake where lotus blooms glow softly red.
Lotus blooms are to be gathered in season.
As summer passes into autumn, they grow to a height quite above the maiden in the boat.
She bows before the lotus. Look at the fruits, fresh and green as the spring of their being.
These fruits let her cherish, for they are red at the core, full of quenchless fire.
The fire she will tend; but is it to be a memory, no more? She watches for the wild geese coming south.
Skein after skein arrives, settling on West Island, but none has a message for her.
She goes to the top of her bower. High as it is, it fails to bring him within sight.
All day long she stops at the balustrade, till the last glimmer of light dies out and the sky looks like a dark heaving sea.
“Draw up the blinds. Let me be face to face with the infinite.
“Unbounded as the blue expanse our freedom should be—at least in dream.
Yet we are not free from sorrow, neither of us.
“Would the south wind have compassion and carry us back to West Island—in dream at least?”