Swiftly the Years

Swiftly the years, beyond recall,
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.

I will clothe myself in spring-clothing,
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain-stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.
R. H. Blyth, Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics