朝日さすひかりを見ても玉笹の
葉分の霜を消たずもあらなむ
葉分の霜を消たずもあらなむ
- Roma-ji
-
Asahi sasu hikari o mite mo tamazasa no
hawake no shimo o ketazu mo aranamu - English Translation
-
Though you look upon
the light of the rising sun,
let the frost that lies
between the leaves of the bamboo
not be melted quite away
- Meaning
- Though you look upon the light of the morning sun, do not let the frost between the leaves of the bamboo be melted quite away.
- Commentary
-
Part One: Fujibakama
That same morning a letter came from the Prince of War. It began by saying that since talk could no longer serve there was nothing he might say, and gave this poem, adding that if she would only know what he felt he might take some comfort. His messenger had carried a drooping, bent stem of bamboo grass without shaking off the frost—a touch, the narrator observes, entirely in keeping with the Prince. Other letters came that day as well; the Commander of the Left Gate Guards, son of Prince Shikibu, heaped reproach on reproach; and the women, looking over papers of every color, every shade of ink, every perfume, said how dull it would be when all these gentlemen gave up.
"The light of the rising sun" is the Emperor. The "jeweled" bamboo grass is Tamakazura herself. "The frost between the leaves" is the Prince. Behind it stand a kagura song about the morning sun striking the bamboo on the hillside, and an old verse about the white dew that lies between its leaves. Even with the imperial radiance before you, he asks, do not let a thing so slight as frost in the shade of the grass be burned away. Entrusting himself to what melts most easily, refusing to contend with the sun, and asking only to be left where he is—that is this Prince's particular grace, and the depth of his resignation. The bent stem brought with its frost intact answers the poem exactly.
- Author
- Murasaki Shikibu
- Source
- Genji Monogatari
- Other
-
- Not knowing the road on which you went astray, nor Imose-yama, anyone might have gone stumbling over the letters, and read them
- Were I an ordinary man, I should have hated this ninth month of the year; yet I stake my life upon it— and how frail a thing that is
- Even to resolve to forget you is a thing full of sorrow—how, oh how am I to manage, and what am I to do?
- Even the mallow, that turns of its own accord toward the light—does it ever melt away the frost that has settled in the morning?