HORT STANZAS

I

Spring, spring has come, while yet the landscape bears
Its fleecy burden of unmelted snow!
Now may the zephyr gently 'gin to blow,
To melt the nightingale's sweet frozen tears.

_Anon._

II

Amid the branches of the silv'ry bowers
The nightingale doth sing: perchance he knows
That spring hath come, and takes the later snows
For the white petals of the plum's sweet flowers.[151]

_Sosei._

III

Too lightly woven must the garments be--
Garments of mist--that clothe the coming spring:--
In wild disorder see them fluttering
Soon as the zephyr breathes adown the lea.

_Yukihara._

IV

Heedless that now the mists of spring do rise,
Why fly the wild geese northward?--Can it be
Their native home is fairer to their eyes,
Though no sweet flowers blossom on its lea?

_Ise_.

V

If earth but ceased to offer to my sight
The beauteous cherry-trees when blossoming,
Ah! then indeed, with peaceful, pure delight,
My heart might revel in the joys of spring!

_Narihira._

VI

Tell me, doth any know the dark recess
Where dwell the winds that scatter the spring flow'rs?
Hide it not from me! By the heav'nly pow'rs,
I'll search them out to upbraid their wickedness!

_Sosei._

VII

No man so callous but he heaves a sigh
When o'er his head the withered cherry-flowers
Come flutt'ring down.--Who knows? the spring's soft show'rs
May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky.

_Kuronushi._

VIII

Whom would your cries, with artful calumny,
Accuse of scatt'ring the pale cherry-flow'rs?
'Tis your own pinions flitting through these bow'rs
That raise the gust which makes them fall and die!

_Sosei._

IX

In blossoms the wistaria-tree to-day
Breaks forth, that sweep the wavelets of my lake:--
When will the mountain cuckoo come and make
The garden vocal with his first sweet lay?

_Attributed to Hitomaro._

X

Oh, lotus leaf! I dreamt that the wide earth
Held nought more pure than thee--held nought more true:--
Why, then, when on thee rolls a drop of dew,
Pretend that 'tis a gem of priceless worth?[152]

_Henzeu._

XI

Can I be dreaming? 'Twas but yesterday
We planted out each tender shoot again;[153]
And now the autumn breeze sighs o'er the plain,