Classic Poem

At the height of our enjoyment comes anguish. This is indeed the way of this world of sorrow, but for this seedling thousand-year-old pine that had known not even half life's joys — for this sprig of but two leaflets, at the peak of her young laughter, to be possessed, unexpectedly as water in a sleeper's ear, by the savage god of pox! At the height of the eruption, she was like a budding first blossom that had no sooner bloomed than it was beaten down by muddy rains; just watching by her side was agony. Then two or three days passed and the pustules began to dry, and like mud sliding down a hillside when the snow thaws, the scabs came off; so we held a joyous celebration, wove a disk of rice straw, sprinkled it with sake and hot water, and sent the god on his way. Yet she grew weaker and weaker, and our hopes each day ebbed lower than the day before, and finally, on the twenty-first day of the Sixth Month, together with the morning glories, she faded from this world. Her mother clung to her dead face, sobbing and sobbing, and who could blame her? When things have reached this pass, one may put on a face of mature resignation, telling oneself that it does no good to wail, for " flowing water returns not to its source, nor the fallen blossom to the branch " — but hard indeed to sever are the bonds of love.
This world of dew's
a world of dew, and yet —
and yet.