In the cloud gray mornings I heard the herons Flying And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns With herons blowing like smoke Across the sky.
In the cloud gray mornings I heard the herons Flying And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns With herons blowing like smoke Across the sky.