From the sun-touched hills the mists begin to withdraw.
In the clearing sky the scattered stars look fewer;
The sinking moon still shines on the faces of the lovers,
Who are shedding tears at parting in the early morning.
Much has been said.
Yet we have not come to the end of our feeling;
Looking back, she says again:
‘If you remember my silken skirt of green,
Have tender regard for the sweet grass wherever you go.’