I

Eight times the autumn weather

has drenched with rain

those grasses that wave

green on your grave.

What friends remain

have grown old together

Three times my own old bones

have passed through illness.

My hair is white.

You, shut from light,

lie in a stillness

made of clay and stones

Do you know or not know

if one can return

to the world of men?

Did you know when

Han-lang came in turn

to the springs below?

You came last night:

or so I dreamed.

The sweetness like a cloud drifted—

flickered and shifted.

Yet to meet you seemed

quite easy and right

II

III

IV