Now the golden leaves have started spinning
On the pinkish water of the pond,
Dainty flock of butterflies now thinning,
Heading for a star they will abscond.
Love for evening's now begun to smoulder,
Yellow valley's hue to heart I've cleaved.
Nascent wind upon the birch's shoulder
Has suspended skirt-hem as it's heaved.
Coolness now descends on soul and valley,
Inky twilight's like a flock of sheep,
Then the sound of tambourine will dally -
Die at silent garden's wicket keep.
I am spendthrift - never parsimonious,
So to reasoned flesh's claims I'm cool -
Willow-like, I crave unceremonious
Tipping into rosy water's pool.
How I'd like, as at the haystack smiling,
Like the muzzled moon to chew the hay...
Oh, where are you quiet joy's beguiling,
Loving all, eschewing hardship's way?