Would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck， fair one？
But you must know that the one wreath that I had woven is for the many， for those who are seen in glimpses， or dwell in lands unexplored， or live in poets' songs.
It is too late to ask my heart in return for yours.
There was a time when my life was like a bud， all its perfume was stored in its core.
Now it is squandered far and wide.
Who knows the enchantment that can gather and shut it up again？
My heart is not mine to give to one only， it is given to the many.
Alas， I was not careful， and it struck your ringing anklets and came to grief.
It broke up into scraps of songs and lay scattered at your feet.
All my cargo of the stories of old wars was tossed by the laughing waves and soaked in tears and sank.
If my claims to immortal fame after death are shattered， make me immortal while I live.
And I will not mourn for my loss nor blame you.
I try to weave a wreath all the morning， but the flowers slip and they drop out.
You sit there watching me in secret through the corner of your prying eyes.
Ask those eyes， darkly planning mischief， whose fault it was.
I try to sing a song， but in vain.
A hidden smile trembles on your lips， ask of it the reason of my failure.
Let your smiling lips say on oath how my voice lost itself in silence like a drunken bee in the lotus.
It is evening， and the time for the flowers to chose their petals.
Give me how to sit by your side， and bid my lips to do the work that can be done in silence and in dim light of stars.
An unbelieving smile flits on your eyes when I come to you to take my leave.
I have done it so often that you think I will soon return.
To tell you the truth I have the same doubt in my mind.
For the spring days come again time after time； the full moon takes leave and comes on another visit， the flower come again and blush upon their branches year after year， and it is likely that I take my leave only to come to you again.
But keep the illusion awhile； do not send it away with ungentle haste.
When I say I leave you for all time， accept it as true， and let a mist of tears for one moment deepen the dark rim of your eyes.
Then smile as archly as you like when I come again.
I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you； but I dare not， for fear you should laugh.
That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest.
I make light of my pain， afraid you should do so.
I long to tell you the truest words I have to say you； but I dare not， being afraid that you would not believe them.
That is why I disguise them in untruth， saying the contrary of what I mean.
I make my pain appear absurd， afraid that you should do so.
I long to use the most precious words I have for you； but I dare not， fearing I should not be paid with like value.
That is why I give you hard names and boast of my callous strength.
I hurt you， for fear you would never know any pain.
I long to sit silent by you； but I dare not lest my heart come out at my lips.
That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart behind words.
I rudely handle my pain， for fear you should do so.
I long to go away from your side； but I dare not， for fear my cowardice should become known to you.
That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your presence.
Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.
O mad， superbly drunk；
If you kick open your doors and play the fool in public；
If you empty your bag in a night， and snap your fingers at prudence；
If you walk in curious paths and play with useless things；
Reck not rhyme or reason；
If unfurling your sails before the storm you snap the rudder in two，
Then I will follow you， comrade， and be drunken and go to the dogs.
I have wasted my days and nights in the company of steady wise neighbors.
Much knowing has turned my hair GREy， and much watching has made my sight dim.
For years I have gathered and heaped up scraps and fragments of them：
Crush them and dance upon them， and scatter them all to the winds.
For I know 'tis the height of wisdom to be drunken and go to the dogs.
Let all crooked scruples vanish， let me hopelessly lose my way.
Let a gust of wild giddiness come and sweep me away from my anchors.
The world is peopled with worthies， and workers， useful and clever.
There are men who are easily first， and men who come decently after.
Let them be happy and prosper， and let me be foolishly futile.
For I know 'tis the end of all works to be drunken and go to the dogs.
I swear to surrender this moment all claims to the ranks of the decent.
I let go my pride of learning and judgment of right and of wrong.
I'll shatter memory's vessel， scattering the last the drop of tears.
With the foam of the berry-red wine I will bathe and brighten my laughter.
The badge of the civil and staid I'll tear into shreds for the nonce.
I'll take the holy vow to be worthless， to be drunken and go to the dogs.
No， my friends， I shall never be an ascetic， whatever you may say.
I shall never be an ascetic if she does not take the vow with me.
It is my firm resolve that if I cannot find a shady shelter and a companion for my penance， I shall never turn ascetic.
No， my friends， I shall never leave my hearth and home， and retire into the forest solitude， if rings no merry laughter in its echoing shade and if the end of no saffron mantle flutters in the wind； if its silence is not deepened by soft whispers.
I shall never be an ascetic.