In the mountains

I am awakened from my quiet dream

By one long note of the sweet mountain bird.

At morning song I rise and fold the screen,

By the frail music rapturously stirred.

The sun has touched the distant mountain peak;

Without the wood the setting sun is thin.

Before my sill the waterfall is cold,

And a fresh wind arising enters in.

Where does it come from, chilling without sound?

The fir-flowers spread a cover on the ground.