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- Ise Monogatari
From the reed-grown shore as the tide comes rising in and ever increases, so toward you my heart thinks and ever more swells on.
Like the tide that comes in from the reed-grown shore and rises ever higher, so my feelings for you grow stronger and stronger.
In the hidden cove how could the heart that I hold be known in such wise, as with the punting pole one sounds and knows the depth below?
Like a hidden cove overgrown and unseen, how could you so clearly know the feelings I keep deep within, as one sounds and knows the depth below with a punting pole?
If I would speak it, I cannot; if I speak not, my breast is troubled, and within a single heart I grieve alone in these days.
When I try to speak, I cannot; if I do not speak, my heart is disturbed within my breast, and so in my heart alone I grieve these days.
The cord of the jewels, twisted of many strands and firmly knotted— though it should once be severed, still I think we shall meet again.
The cord on which the jewels are strung is twisted of many strands and tied fast; even if it should be cut, I believe we shall surely be joined again.
The valley being narrow, the jeweled vine climbs on up to the high peak; never have I thought to break my bond with you and let it cease.
Like the jeweled vine that, because the valley is narrow, climbs and reaches up to the mountain peak, I have never thought to sever my bond with you.
Other than myself, unloose not your lower cord— the morning-glory that will not wait for evening shade, though it should fade so swiftly.
Other than me, do not loosen your lower cord. Even if you are like the morning-glory that does not wait for the evening light and quickly fades away.
The cord we two together knotted fast between us— alone, by myself, until I see you once again, I think I shall not loose it.
The cord that we two together tied, I, alone, will not loosen until I see you again.
Because of you alone, I have learned this longing— in this fleeting world, do people call such a thing by the name of love, I wonder?
Because of you, I have come to know this feeling. In this world, do people call such a thing love, I wonder?
Not having learned it, of the ways of the world, what could it be— that I should ask of others what it is they call love?
Having never known it, I am the one who asks people of the world just what it is they call love.
If she should go forth, then all would be at an end— put out the torches; hear the voices that lament, saying her years were but a flame.
If the princess’s bier goes forth, it will be the end for her. Extinguish the torches and listen to the voices that weep, saying that her years were but a brief flame.
How deeply moving, the weeping that I now hear— though the torches die, that things should vanish and be gone, that I do not truly know.
How moving it is to hear the weeping. Though the torches are extinguished, I do not know that what fades is truly gone.
If she should go forth, who then would find parting hard? but beyond all past, today’s grief surpasses all— how sorrowful this day is.
If she were to leave of her own will, who would find the parting so hard? Yet more than ever before, today is filled with sorrow.
When purple’s hue is deep in its season, so it seems to me— all the grasses of the fields have not withered away.
When the color of the purple root is deep and rich, the grasses and trees of the fields all appear as one, none seeming to have withered away.
Since I went forth, even the traces I left have not yet altered— whose passing path, I wonder, has it now come to be?
Even the traces from when I left you have surely not yet changed, and yet, I wonder whose passing path it has now become.
Cuckoo—since there are so many villages where you go on singing, still, though I think of you, I cannot hold you dear.
Cuckoo, since there are so many villages where you sing, though I am drawn to you, I cannot quite hold you dear.
In name alone stands the field-warden of death— this very morning it cries, for they have sung of many huts for it.
The cuckoo, called only by name the warden of the fields of death, cries this morning, for it has been said that it has many huts and belongs to none.