Yuki

When cherry flowers begin to blow   With Yuki’s face beneath them, The richest petals lose their glow,   And small buds haste to sheath them. When blue wistaria hangs its head   And Yuki leans above it, The swallow flits discomforted,—   With none to see or love it. When lotus blossoms open wide,   And beckon men to dreaming, My Yuki smiles,—and all their pride   Is but a perfumed seeming. When snow is white on moat and tree   And crusts each bamboo feather, My Yuki lifts her eyes to me,—   ’T is all I know of weather.