At end of spring the myrtle, suddenly appearing,
It goes on giving a swing.
Hope that was in memory found expression
Upon just its inspiration.
In a tiny rose garden, that is not its place;
And also in a palace, one does not maintain.
A bumblebee searches for nectar in vain
At the wrong moment, at an hour inauspicious.
In its mind also, there is honey;
With form and flavor, it becomes overflowing.
Having loved, those who go near,
Only they discover it.
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Subtly sweet is the myrtle.
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