As the sun is to set over the hill and a river to flow into the sea,

So are the heroes of old and now to be buried in mounds?

Let it be so. Whatever rises is to fall; why complain we all must fade away?

Having melted the mountain snow, the spring wind is gone traceless.

I wish I could borrow it for a while—to have it blow on my head,

So that the frost that has long settled below my ears may melt away!

With a thorny branch in one hand, and a stick in the other,

I was ready to block age with thorns and beat off white hair with the stick.

Knowing all this beforehand, white hair took a shortcut, and is here already.

The moonlight is pale on pear blossoms, and the Milky Way shines at midnight.

Though the Philomel crying all night may not know the sentiment of a spring branch,

I toss about all night, unable to sleep, as if tender feelings were an ailment.

Mounted high on my battle horse well groomed and washed in a stream,

Bearing on my back my long sword whetted to be worth wielding,

I am about to accomplish a manly feat, and fulfill my duty to serve my land.

Snowfall has become more frequent in this vale, where clouds throng.

Where are the plum-blossoms, that I long to see, blowing now?

Standing all alone in the sunset, I do not know where to turn.

To the vale where the crows fight, do not go, white heron.

The angry crows may turn spiteful, and envy your snowy feathers.

I fear lest your feathers washed clean should get stained with dirt.

Perhaps they are wrong, who say clouds are void of thoughts.

Drifting leisurely in the wide sky, they float to where they wish.

But they somehow intently chase the bright rays to block them.

Whether it be this way or that way,what difference will it make?