Why do you put me to shame with a look?
I have not come as a beggar.
Only for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyard outside the garden hedge.
Why do you put me to shame with a look?
 
Not a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did I pluck.
I humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every strange traveller may stand.
Not a rose did I pluck.
 
Yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down.
The winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.
The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from defeat.
My feet were tired.
 
I know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at your door.
Flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes.
How could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark?
I know not what you thought of me.
 
The day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment.
I leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this seat on the grass.
It has darkened; shut your door; I go my way.
The day is ended.

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The gardener
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