I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;
Only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.
Only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house'.
The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;
But the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.