^{translated from the Japanese by William George Aston}

The cry of the cicada
Gives us no sign
That presently it will die.

What shall meadow hold to please me,
Spreading wide its scented waving,
How shall quiet mosses ease me, 
Or the night-wind cool my craving?
Hill and hedgerow, cloud-sweet sky, 
Echo our good-by.

Bud unplucked and leaf a-quiver,
Bird that lifts a tuneless trilling,
Restless dream of brook and river,
All June’s cup a wasted spilling—
You and I so thirsty-hearted!—
Summer knows us parted.

(AND SCARCELY WORTH THE TROUBLE, AT THAT)

THE same to me are sombre days and gay.
      Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
    Within my heart is melancholy night.

My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
    That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
    The same to me are sombre days and gay.

Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
    And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
    Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.

Ungraceful seems to me the swallow’s flight;
    As well might Heaven’s blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
    Because my dearest love is gone away.

Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
    And virgin daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
    Within my heart is melancholy night.

And this, oh love, my pitiable plight
    Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light. . . .
    I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
                                                    The same to me.

^{She loved him. He knew it. And love was a game that two
                      could play at.––“Julia Cane,” p. 280}

ONCE the orioles sang in chorus,
Once the skies were a cloudless blue.
Spring bore blossoms expressly for us,
Stars lined up to spell “Y-O-U.”
All the world wore a golden hue,
Life was a thing to be bold and gay at;
Love was the only game I knew,
And love is a game that two can play at.

Now the heavens are scowling o’er us,
Now the blossoms are pale and few.
Love was a rose with thorns that tore us,
Love was a ship without a crew.
Love is untender, and love is untrue,
Love is a moon for a dog to bay at,
Love is the Lady-That’s-Known-as-Lou,
And love is a game that two can play at.

Recollections can only bore us;
Now it’s over, and now it’s through.
Our day is dead as a dinosaurus.
Other the paths that you pursue.
What is the girl in the case to do?
What is she going to spend her day at?
Fun demands, at a minimum, two­­––
And love is a game that two can play at.