I do not regret, complain, or weep,
All passes, like smoke off the white apple trees.
Autumn’s gold has me in its withering grip.
I shall never be young again.
My heart has felt the chill,
It no longer beats as it once did.
The birch woods cotton print
No more tempts me to roam barefoot.
Spirit of wandering, less and less
Do you stir my lips’ flame.
Oh, my lost freshness, storminess
Of eye, passion’s flood time.
Oh life, do my desires
Grow tamer, or was it all a dream?
As though, in spring’s echoing early hours,
I had galloped by on a pink steed.
We are all mortal. Silently
The maples spill the copper of their leaves.
May you be blessed for evermore
That you came— to flourish and to die.