Though small my basket, all my toil
Filled it with mouse-ears but in part.
I set it on the path, and sighed
For the dear master of my heart.
My steeds, o'er-tasked, their progress stayed,
When midway up that rocky height.
Give me a cup from that gilt vase--
When shall this longing end in sight?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem