Classic Poem

A northerly swirls up from the empty woods,
making the winter scene desolate.
Night comes and I add another robe
and blow on the fire, seated in a warm room.
Father must be in Shinshu, traveling.
I can imagine the rugged mountain paths:
all day climbing up, then down below,
he passes many times the five wrestlers' works,
wretched palanquin struck by the snow,
station-inn bedding terribly thin.
I, his daughter, am comfy, warm,
thinking all the more of his cruel cold.