| Maiden reddened as the beautiful autumn mountains, and lithe as soft bamboo, what could have been in her mind? Long life she had cut off. Only if it were dew, then we could say that, falling on the leaves in the morning, it vanishes by evening. Only if it were mist, then we could say that, rising in the evening, it is lost by morning. But even I, who heard of her death, regret I saw her only faintly. How much her husband would grieve over her death, beacuse they pillowed each other in their arms! How much he would feel lonely from sleep. Is it regret that keeps him thinking of her, and missing? The girl who has gone before her time, like the morning dew, like the evening mist. |
