Why
do you put me to
shame with a look?
I
have not come as a beggar.
Only
for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyard outside the
garden hedge.
Why
do you put me to shame with a look?
Not
a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did I pluck.
I
humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every strange
traveller may stand.
Not
a rose did I pluck.
Yes,
my feet were tried, and the shower of rain came down.
The
winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.
The
clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from defeat.
My
feet were tried.
I
know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at your
door.
Flashes
of lighting dazzled your watching eyes.
How
could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark?
I
know not what you thought of me.
The
day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment.
I
leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this seat on
the grass.
It
has darkened; shut your door; I go my way.
The
day is ended.
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