Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines!

I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with

these jasmines, these white jasmines.

I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;

I have heard the liquid murmur of the river thorough the

darkness of midnight;

Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of a road in the

lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil to accept her lover.

Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines

that I held in my hands when I was a child.

Many a glad day has come in my life, and I have laughed with

merrymakers on festival nights.

On grey mornings of rain I have crooned many an idle song.

I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of bakulas woven

by the hand of love.

Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh

jasmines that filled my hands when I was a child.

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