THE FIRST JASMINES

    AH, these jasmines, these white jasmines！

    I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with these jasmines, these white jasmines.

    I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth；

    I have heard the liquid murmur¹ of the river through the darkness of midnight；

    Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of a road in the lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil to accept her lover.

    Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines that I held in my hand when I was a child.

    Many a glad day has come in my life, and I have laughed with merrymakers on festival nights.

    On grey mornings of rain I have crooned many an idle song.

    I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of bakulas woven by the hand of love.

    Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh jasmines that filled my hands when I was a child.