He is going to the T’ung T’ing lake,
My friend whom I have loved so many years.
The spring wind startles the willows
And they break into pale leaf.
I go with my friend
As far as the river-bank.
He is gone—
And my mind is filled and overflowing
With the things I did not say.
Again the white water-flower
Is ripe for plucking.
The green pointed swords of the iris
Splinter the brown earth.
To the south of the river
Are many cinnamon trees.
I gather branches of them to give to my friend
At his return.