Prevod

This, too, is a tale of long ago. When Lord Michitoshi, Minister of Ceremonial, was compiling the Goshūishū, Hata no Kanehisa went to see him, hoping that perhaps one of his poems might find its way into the collection. Michitoshi came out to receive him, and as they talked, asked, “What poems have you composed?” “I have nothing of any great merit,” Kanehisa replied. “But after the death of Emperor Go-Sanjō, I visited Enshūji, and the blossoms were as lovely as ever. On that occasion I composed this: ‘They have bloomed with colors unchanged from when I saw them last year. The blossoms, at least, have known no sorrow.’” Lord Michitoshi said, “It is well composed. Still, such expressions as kere, keri, and keru are hardly distinguished language. But leaving that aside, hana koso—‘the blossoms, at least’—would make a fine name for a little serving girl.” Finding his poem so little praised, Kanehisa rose with scarcely another word. Stopping where the attendants were gathered, he said, “His Lordship plainly knows nothing whatever about poetry. How deplorable that such a man should be entrusted with compiling an imperial anthology! There is a poem by the Shijō Major Counselor: ‘Only when spring comes do people visit this mountain dwelling: the blossoms, indeed, are the masters of the house.’ Everyone calls it a splendid poem and is forever reciting it. Yet it has hito mo toikeru—‘people visit’—and yado no aruji narikere—‘are the masters of the house’—and its hana koso is just the same as mine. Why should the Shijō Major Counselor’s poem be splendid and Kanehisa’s poor? It is deplorable that such a man should be commissioned to compile an anthology and presume to choose the poems!” With that, he left. An attendant went to Michitoshi and told him, “Kanehisa said such and such before he left.” The Minister of Ceremonial nodded. “Quite so, quite so,” he said. “Say nothing of it.”