The winds cut, clouds are high,
apes wail their sorrows,
The ait is fresh, sand white,
birds fly in circles;
On all sides fallen leaves
go rustling, rustling,
While ceaseless river waves
come rippling, rippling:
Autumn’s each faded mile
seems like my journey
To mount, alone and ill,
to this balcony;
Life’s failures and regrets
frosting my temples,
And wretched that I’ve had
to give up drinking.