Frail branches of arbor Shelter the roses from the gust of the East Wind Enveloped in a cloud of perfume Filled with drops of dew For whom are they so seductive? Is it only to provoke the fragile bu*terflies and the irascible bees? My heart swollen with sentimentality I wander in this pleasure garden And then my drunkenness wears off My pleasure does and does not return The moon, sad enough to tear the bowels Sinks to the horizon, and suddenly The Spring has grown old