even the most insignificant of the rocks placed there looked like something out of a painting. Here and there, the top branches of the trees, enfolded in spring mist, overspread the landscape like a brocade cloth, and the onlookers could faintly make out the garden of Murasaki’s residence in the distance, the drooping branches of its willows now deepening in color and an indescribable, almost radiant fragrance wafting toward them.
