Lxvi

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.