Classic Poem

All of a sudden my delight in sightseeing wanes,
Now the maidens gathering flowers
Are nowhere to be found.
Away from home one cares little
For spring outings,
Distracted by composing mournful verses.

Under whose roof are the swallows
That last year were roaming the ends of the earth?
I'd rather not listen to the patter of evening rain:
Late spring is no time to speed
The blossoming of flowers.