Why did he choose to come to my door, the wandering youth, when the day dawned?
As I come in and out I pass by him every time, and my eyes are caught by his face.
I know not if I should speak to him or keep silent.  Why did he choose to come to my door?
 
The cloudy nights in July are dark; the sky is soft blue in the autumn; the spring days are restless with the south wind.
He weaves his songs with fresh tunes every time. I turn from my work and my eyes fill with the mist.  Why did he choose to come to my door?

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The gardener
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