That rogue called Love having left me,
How cold snow feels to me!

Although I strive hard to conceal
The passion which my bosom tasks,
My visage shows the pain I feel,
Till men ask what torments my heart.

How the skylark soars,
Treading on the cloud,
Inhaling the haze!

My eyes which had seen all came back,
Back to the white chrysanthemums.

The snow upon my hat
Feels light, being mine own.

What an expanse of rape-flowers,
With the moon east and the sun west!

Belated, and my pathway lost,
I will take lodging here, beneath this tree.
So shall the mountain cherry-blossoms be
To-night mine host.

Like the buoy that floats in the harbour,
Now high and now dropping low,
Is my heart that love has tortured
When I watch you come and go.

Passionate music of the nightingale,
Not joy you bring me, but a strange regret,
A memory of nothingness, the pale
Face of a lover I have never met.

I have so long been sick, I cannot tell
What path the spring has taken; yet I fear
That long ago the cherry blossom fell
For which my eyes had waited all the year.