The chance to meet is difficult,
but parting is even more difficult.
The east wind is powerless
as the hundred flowers wither.
A spring silkworm spins silk
up to the instant of death.
A candle only stops weeping
when its wick becomes ash.
In the morning mirror, she grieves
that the hair on her temples whitens.
Chanting poems in the evening,
she only senses the moonlight’s cold.
From here, P’eng Mountain is not too far.
O Green Bird, seek, seek her out.