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As he prepared to leave in the morning, he gave the abbot silks and cottons that had been brought after him. He gave similar gifts to Ben-nokimi and even to her women and the ordinary priests. It was a lonely mountain dwelling, but with this steady flow of gifts she was able to pursue the religious vocation in quiet security and in a manner befitting her station.

The trees had been stripped bare by the cruel winds. There were no tracks through the leaves. Hating to depart for what he feared would be the last time, he gazed on at the melancholy scene. The ivy climbing the twisted mountain trees still had traces of autumn color. He broke off a sprig, thinking that even so small a gift would please Nakanokimi.

“Memories of nights beneath the ivy

Bring comfort to the traveler's lonely sleep.”

This was Bennokimi's answer:

“Sad must be the memory of lodging

Beneath this rotting, ivy-covered tree.” **

Though he would not have called it a modish, up-to-date poem, it was not without charm, and it brought consolation of a sort.