White bird in the distant bright, if it please
your youthful heart, come and unfold
those mighty wings by green arrow’s edge.
Around us, red leaves murmur of the approaching
frost, yet, I suspect that her apron pockets contain
secrets which we will never hear.
White bird in the distant light, if it please
your faithful heart, come and promenade
gracefully by my weary, rain-washed eyes.
The persimmons are slinking away and
I fear that we shall never meet again.
If it please you, it would please me.