Hard it was to meet you –
hard as well to say goodbye.
The east wind’s powerless1, all flowers die.
Only when a spring silk-worm perishes,
would its silk be exhausted;
Only when a candle burns to ashes,
would its tears dry.
At dawn by the mirror,
you’d worry your hair may change;
By night reciting poems,
you’d feel the moonlight’s chill above high.
The Penglai Mount3 is not far from here:
Green bird4, to look for her please diligently try.