Wordless, alone I ascend the West Tower.
The moon, a beautiful crescent,
Shines on a clump of lonely parasol-trees
That lock up serene autumn
In a secluded courtyard.

Sorrows of parting—a jumble of raveled thread:
Try to cut it—it defies severing;
Sort it out—and it tangles again.
A taste with a queerness
There's no savoring
Save in the depth of one's heart.