Keen the wind from Fuji's height,
Sweeping o'er the plain,
Nips the leaves with iron might
And drives the icy rain.
Makes the brook a torrent run,
Hides with flying clouds the sun,
And howls a mad refrain.
Weary lag the traveller's feet
On the mountain way;
Dark the path — the cruel sleet
Dims the light of day.
The village buried from his view,
Where to his love he bade adieu,
And heard her parting lay.
O she must wait his coming long,
As swallows wait the spring!
Although her lips have framed the song
To give him welcoming;
High on the mountain-path the storm
Has veiled in snow her lover's form,
And she his dirge must sing.