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If, but through the dreams

Of a spring's short night, I'd rest

Pillowed on this arm,

And my name were blameless stained,

Hard, indeed, would be my fate.

百(ひゃく)人(にん)一(いっ)首(しゅ) #67 by 周(す)防(おうの)内(ない)侍(し)

Notes on this poem

Translation by Clay MacCauley via Hyakunin-Isshu (Single Songs of a Hundred Poets), 1917

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