Don't weep, insects -- Lovers, stars themselves, Must part.
Red morning sky - snail, are you glad of it?
There is no stranger under the cherry tree.
Moon, plum blossoms, this, that, and the day goes
Summer night-- even the stars are whispering to each other.
On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew...so dear, So fresh, so fleeting