A bright moon illumines the night-prospect: The house-cricket chirrups on the eastern wall. The Handle of the Pole-star points to the Beginning of Winter. The host of stars is scattered over the sky. The white dew wets the moor-grasses,-- With sudden swiftness the times and seasons change. The autumn cicada sings among the trees, The swallows, alas, whither are they gone? Once I had a same-house friend, He took flight and rose high away. He did not remember how once we went hand in hand, But left me like footsteps behind one in the dust. In the South is the Winnowing-fan and the Pole-star in the North, And a Herd-boy[15] whose ox has never borne the yoke. A friend who is not firm as a great rock Is of no profit and idly bears the name.