Gradually the new moon hangs on the willow tree And 'mid the flowers sheds pale beams As if day broke the twilight dreams. The crescent would turn round with glee. To it bow. Whom should I meet on fragrant pathway now? It's like the Moon Goddess' undulating brow, Gnawed by her parting sorrow still. What's loveliest of all, A hooklike silver crescent small Hangs on the pearly curtain of Autumn's chill.
Form age to age it waxes and wanes. Don't ask how long! Though you may whet the axe of jade, How can you mend the mirror of gold? The royal garden still remains, But now so drear. Who'll sing a song In praise of marble balustrade? In native land the night is endless as of old. I'll wait until The moon turns round and peeps into my room. O see beyond the clouds the hill and rill, Where even laurel trees grow old and cast a gloom!
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