Time was long before I met her, but is longer since we parted, And the east wind has arisen and a hundred flowers are gone, And the silk-worms of spring will weave until they die And every night the candles will weep their wicks away. Mornings in her mirror she sees her hair-cloud changing, Yet she dares the chill of moonlight with her evening song. ...It is not so very far to her Enchanted Mountain O blue-birds, be listening!-Bring me what she says!