The Gardener: 46
You left me and went on your way.
I thought I should mourn for you and set your solitary image in my heart wrought in a golden song.
But ah, my evil fortune, time is short.
Youth wanes year after year; the spring days are fugitive; the frail flowers die for nothing, and the wise man warns me that life is but a dew-drop on the lotus leaf.
Should I neglect all this to gaze after one who has turned her back on me?
That would be rude and foolish, for time is short.
Then, come, my rainy nights with pattering feet; smile, my golden autumn; come, careless April, scattering your kisses abroad.
You come, and you, and you also!
My loves, you know we are mortals. Is it wise to break one's heart for the one who takes her heart away? For time is short.
It is sweet to sit in a corner to muse and write in rhymes that you are all my world.
It is heroic to hug one's sorrow and determine not to be consoled.
But a fresh face peeps across my door and raises its eyes to my eyes.
I cannot but wipe away my tears and change the tune of my song.
For time is short.
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