_Travelling_

Miyako-bird! if not in vain men give Thy pleasing name, my question deign to hear:-- And has she pa.s.s'd away, my darling dear, Or doth she still for Narihira live?

_Narihira._

XXVIII

_Love_

The barest ledge of rock, if but a seed Alight upon it, lets the pine-tree grow:-- If, then, thy love for me be love indeed, We'll come together, dear; it must be so!

_Anon._

XXIX

_Love_

There is on earth a thing more bootless still Than to write figures on a running stream:-- And that thing is (believe me if you will) To dream of one who ne'er of you doth dream.

_Anon._

x.x.xI

_Love_

Since that first night when, bath'd in hopeless tears, I sank asleep, and he I love did seem To visit me, I welcome ev'ry dream, Sure that they come as heav'n-sent messengers.

_Komachi._

x.x.xII

_Love_

Methinks my tenderness the gra.s.s must be, Clothing some mountain desolate and lone; For though it daily grows luxuriantly, To ev'ry mortal eye 'tis still unknown.

_Yoshiki._

x.x.xIII

_Love_

Upon the causeway through the land of dreams Surely the dews must plentifully light:-- For when I've wandered up and down all night, My sleeve's so wet that nought will dry its streams.

_Tsurayuki._

x.x.xIV

_Love_

Fast fall the silv'ry dews, albeit not yet 'Tis autumn weather; for each drop's a tear, Shed till the pillow of my hand is wet, As I wake from dreaming of my dear.

_Anon._

x.x.xV

_Love_

I ask'd my soul where springs th' ill-omened seed That bears the herb of dull forgetfulness;[155]

And answer straightway came:--Th' accursed weed Grows in that heart which knows no tenderness.

_Sosei._

x.x.xVI

_Elegies_[156]

So frail our life, perchance to-morrow's sun May never rise for me. Ah! well-a-day!

Till comes the twilight of the sad to-day, I'll mourn for thee, O thou beloved one!

_Tsurayuki._

x.x.xVII

_Elegies_

The perfume is the same, the same the hue As that which erst my senses did delight:-- But he who planted the fair avenue Is here no more, alas! to please my sight!

_Tsurayuki._

x.x.xVIII

_Elegies_

One thing, alas! more fleeting have I seen Than wither'd leaves driv'n by the autumn gust:-- Yea, evanescent as the whirling dust Is man's brief pa.s.sage o'er this mortal scene!