Sitting alone
in the hush of the bamboo grove
I thrum my lute
and whistle lingering notes.
In the secrecy of the wood
no one can hear --
Only the clear moon
comes to shine on me.
by Henry Clay Work
The sun that sank just now beyond those calm waters
Shines not for me;
The sun that will to-morrow gild yonder mountain
I shall not see.