The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only
there is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have
heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the
lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.