Anon.
Just after sunrise I gathered purple orchids.
I painted them all day long,
Striving to make a picture for my friend.
But not for one moment could I catch the breath of their beauty.
Never once did they blossom from my brush.
Now, before sunset, it seems that even their fragrance
Is lost to me. The purple petals droop
In the heat of this shuttered room.
I open my door. I turn to the Eastern Garden.
Out of the locust tree comes a butterfly.
He whirls and dips above the vase of orchids.
Drunken with perfume he reels from bloom to bloom.
I, who have striven so hard to hold their fragrance,
Shall I lost it to one who sips and flies away?