Snow-capped as they are,
The gentle slopes of the mountains
Fade into the hazy mist
At twilight on a spring day.
The river descends far and distant,
Plum-fragrance filling the village.
In a soft river breeze
Stands a single willow tree
Fresh in sprint colour.
At early awn every push of the oar
Is audible from a passing boat.
There must be a moon
Dying in the morning sky
Wrapped in a heavy fog.
The ground is covered with frost,
The autumn is drawing to its close.
In a sorrowful voice
A cricket is heard singing
Beneath the withering grass.
I paid a call to a friend of mine,
Taking a desolate lane by the hedge.