Classic Poem

In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps,
thou walkest, silent as night,
eluding all watchers.
Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless
of the insistent calls of the loud east wind,
and a thick veil has been drawn over the
ever-wakeful blue sky.
The woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors
are all shut at every house.
Thou art the solitary wayfarer
in this deserted street.
Oh my only friend,
my best beloved,
the gates are open in my house —
do not pass by like a dream.