Dawn reddens in the wake of night; but the days
of our life return not.
Sweet-scented orchids blot out the path; but
they die in the drift of waters and their
flowers are blotted out.
The Yang-tse-Kiang splashes through shelving
maple-woods.
The eye contains a far horizon, but the wound of
spring lies deep in the heart.
O Poet! turn thee to the Capital—to the men
who shall make thee forget.
Surely, the Earth-sorrow for the passing of spring
from her quiet places is overwhelming.
