'Tis autumn weather; for each drop's a tear,
Shed till the pillow of my hand is wet,
As I wake from dreaming of my dear.

_Anon._

XXXV

_Love_

I ask'd my soul where springs th' ill-omened seed
That bears the herb of dull forgetfulness;[155]
And answer straightway came:--Th' accursed weed
Grows in that heart which knows no tenderness.

_Sosei._

XXXVI

_Elegies_[156]

So frail our life, perchance to-morrow's sun
May never rise for me. Ah! well-a-day!
Till comes the twilight of the sad to-day,
I'll mourn for thee, O thou beloved one!

_Tsurayuki._

XXXVII

_Elegies_

The perfume is the same, the same the hue
As that which erst my senses did delight:--
But he who planted the fair avenue
Is here no more, alas! to please my sight!

_Tsurayuki._

XXXVIII

_Elegies_

One thing, alas! more fleeting have I seen
Than wither'd leaves driv'n by the autumn gust:--
Yea, evanescent as the whirling dust
Is man's brief passage o'er this mortal scene!

_Chisato._

XXXIX

Softly the dews upon my forehead light:--
From off the oars, perchance, as feather'd spray,
They drop, while some fair skiff bends on her way
Across the Heav'nly Stream[157] on starlit night.

_Anon._

XL

What though the waters of that antique rill
That flows along the heath, no more are cold;
Those who remember what it was of old
Go forth to draw them in their buckets still.

_Anon._

XLI[158]

Old Age is not a friend I wish to meet;
And if some day to see me he should come,
I'd lock the door as he walk'd up the street,
And cry, "Most honored sir! I'm not at home!"

_Anon_.

XLII[159]

Yes, I am old; but yet with doleful stour
I will not choose to rail 'gainst Fate's decree.
An' I had not grown old, then ne'er for me
Had dawned the day that brings this golden hour.

_Toshiyuki._

XLIII[160]

The roaring torrent scatters far and near
Its silv'ry drops:--Oh! let me pick them up!
For when of grief I drain some day the cup,
Each will do service as a bitter tear.

_Yukihira._

XLIV

_Composed on beholding the cascade of Otoha on Mount Hiye_

Long years, methinks, of sorrow and of care
Must have pass'd over the old fountain-head
Of the cascade; for, like a silv'ry thread,
It rolls