I don"t regret, nor call, nor cry,
All is to pass like apple-trees" white smoke.
Enfolded in the gold of fading, I
Shall not be young once more.

You will not beat on the way you go,   
O my heart, affected by the cold, 
And the land of birchen calico
Will not tempt to roam barefoot.

Rambling spirit! Now less, less often
You stir up the embers of my heart.
O my freshness long forgotten,
The eyes" rampage and the senses" flood.

Now I"ve become sedater in my longings,
O my life! Did I live or dream I did?
As if on a springtide loud morning 
I have raced on a rose steed.

All, we all are transient in this world,
Softly maples rain with copper leaves...
May all that be ever blessed what 
Comes to blossom and decease.
 

1921-2021.