Now, as my hand rolls up the blind to reach its hook of jade,
Sorrow for spring again assails me in my cloistered shade.
Who is the master once the wind-blown blossom's fallen free?
I wonder anxiously.

The orioles bring no messages from cloudland's distant groves
My troubles grow entwined as rain-drenched blossom on the cloves.
Green billows in the three ravines I watch as day goes by
Press on to reach the sky.