In spring, the dawn. The sky along the mountains slowly whitens, grows a little lighter, and thin purple-tinged clouds trail across it.
In summer, the night. Moonlit nights, of course. But on dark nights too, it is lovely when fireflies fly about in great numbers. And even when only one or two go by, glowing faintly, it is charming. Rain falling is charming too.
In autumn, the evening. When the setting sun shines and draws very near the rim of the mountains, even the crows hurrying home to roost, in threes and fours, in twos and threes, are moving. And it is all the more charming when geese in a line look very small far off. After the sun has set, the sound of the wind and the cries of insects are beyond words.
In winter, the early morning. When snow is falling, of course. When the frost is very white, or even without it, when it is very cold and fires are hurriedly lit and charcoal carried along the corridors, it suits a winter morning so well. As noon comes and the cold eases, the fire in the brazier turns to white ash, and that is unsightly.
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One day when the snow had piled up very high, the shutters were kept down, unusually, and we ladies were gathered around the brazier talking, when Empress Teishi said, "Shonagon, how is the snow of Xianglu Peak?" I had the shutters raised and rolled the blind up high, and the empress laughed. Her question drew on Bai Juyi's poem, "The snow of Xianglu Peak I view by raising the blind," and I answered not with words but with an act. The others said, "We all know that line, and even use it in poems, but it never occurred to us. Truly, this is how one who serves this empress should be."