What the west wind whispers
At the end of summer,
When the barley harvest
Ripens to the sickle,
Who can tell?
What means the fine music
Of the dry cicada,
Through the long noon hours
Of the autumn stillness,
Who can say?
How the grape ungathered
With its bloom of blueness
Greatens on the trellis
Of the brick-walled garden,
Who can know?
Yet I, too, am greatened,
Keep the note of gladness,
Travel by the wind's road,
Through this autumn leisure,—
By thy love.