Tears are hard to check; they sprinkle with moisture the lotus-stalks.
I remember how I wove my words with yours, when we stood by the ring-fence.
Look you! The whitewashed wall still keeps the lines which my lord wrote,
Even that lotus-flower song which, leaning against the fence, we sang together, you an I.
To-day the flowers reopen; why, then, are we mortals apart in two places?
I know not yet whether you fare ill or well upon your road; for never a day has brought home a letter from you.
How can you give me cause to indite with lotus-pen words of such lasting sorrow?
I cannot write fully of my heart’s woe; it is endless as the unbroken lily fibre.
To-day regret broods o’er me here at the ring-fence, while I mention bygone things.
Ah! Memory brings sighing.
As I watch the bruised lily wither, so I muse on the hardness of this world’s way.