The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. 

I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. 

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. 

I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.