The weather was a dismal grey.
I asked her, "Will you let me play?"
She told me, "I do send for you."
I felt her words were so untrue.
The weather was the brightest hue
Of softly glowing clouds and blue.
I told her, "I am busy now."
She said, "Hark! I show the Tao."
I spent in mis'ry long, long years
Of furtive glances, baleful tears.
I've realized that I was wrong.
This choice is mine, I write my song.