Dolly sits a-quilting by her mother, stich by stitch,
Gracious, how my pulses throb, how my fingers itch,
While I note her dainty waist and her slender hand,
As she matches this and that, she stitches strand by strand.
And I long to tell her Life's a quilt and I'm a patch;
Love will do the stitching if she'll only be my match.

I Thought of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.

I've got an arrow here;
Loving the hand that sent it,
I the dart revere.

Fell, they will say, in ‘skirmish’!
Vanquished, my soul will know,
By but a simple arrow
Sped by an archer's bow.

Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ's chosen flock,
Shun the broad way too easily explored,
And let thy path be hewn out of the Rock,
The living Rock of God's eternal Word.

I am burnt out, but luckily
The flowers have had their glory and are gone.

The nightingale was singing sweet. Just then
A bean-curd vendor's noisy street-cry at the gate.

Even deer may deem him a fool—
The puller of a bird-clapper.

I have enjoyed the harvest moon
Two extra years in fleeting life.

A cloud of flowers!
Is the bell Ueno

The first drizzling shower is falling;
The monkey seems craving a small rain coat.