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Dark, dark be reed and rush, The white dew turns to frost; What manner of man is this? Lost? Gin I rin up, Gin I go down, Up stream heavy, there he’d be In mid water distantly. www.ddhw.com Chill, chill be the reeds, The white dew not yet dry; What manner of man is he Under the hanging bank? Up stream heavily, Gin I swim down, On tufted isle Distantly. Ever falls dew on bright reeds. What manner of thing is he Who seems to be there on the marge Up stream, to the West, at large? Hard to go up, to swim, tho’ he seem There on the isle, mid-stream. www.ddhw.com Translated by Ezra Pound