Above the white down of the cherries,
Like blue fire, soaring high,
Cleaving, weaving pathways, light and
Swift — a blue-winged butterfly.

All around the air is trembling
With the sun in golden strings,
And almost too quiet for hearing
It strums them with trembling wings.

And in waves the song is pouring,
Gentle gleaming paean to spring.
Is it not my heart that carols?
Is it not my heart that sings?

Is it not a bell-voiced zephyr,
Whispering in the thin plants, hides?
Or perhaps the tall dry rushes
Rustling at the waterside?

Not for us to understand it,
Nor discover it, nor learn:
The notes flying, quivering, ringing,
Let me not to thinking turn.

Song bursts forth and gushes into
The great world, unfettered, free.
But who is it that will hear it?
The poet alone, maybe.