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Poem	There is room for you. You are alone with your few sheaves of rice. My boat is crowded, it is heavily laden, but how can I turn you away? Your young body is slim and swaying; there is a twinkling smile in the edge of your eyes, and your robe is coloured like the rain cloud. The travellers will land for different roads and homes. You will sit for a while on the prow of my boat, and at the journey's end none will keep you back. Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves? I will not question you, but when I fold my sails and moor my boat I shall sit and wonder in the evening, -Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves?
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