Fumes of wine shorten the long road.

Shod with wings is the horse of him who rides

On a Spring day the road that leads to home.

Still and clear, the first weeks of May,

When trees are green and bushes soft and wet;

When the wind has stolen the shadows of new leaves

And birds linger on the last boughs that bloom.

If the Fleeting World is but a long dream,

It does not matter whether one is young or old.