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the tenth Moon—none wist why—

Sick that Lady lay:

As from cherry boughs the bloom

Falls, so fell away

Cheeks' fresh tint, and ripe lips' rosy dye.

More and more the gentle face

Weary grew and wan:

Those that saw her in the Spring-tide—

Sweet O Haru San—

Cried: "Oh, where is gone such youth and grace?"

Grave physicians gathered nigh

Famed for healing lore;

Sovereign herbs they culled and boiled:

Not one whit the more

Gained she glow of cheek or light of eye.