| LXXIV
The day is no more,
the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to
the stream to fill my pitcher.
The evening air is
eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the
dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the
ripples are rampant in the river.
I know not if I
shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There
at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his
lute.
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