Across the lotus pond, a boat parts the brocade of blooms, / Luring mandarin ducks to play in ripples they assume.
In evening's broken glow, she laughs, plucks a flower, returns, / Her dark-blue veil a gentle shield where lamp's flame burns.
Her jade-like form, so slender, weary from the cooling bath, / Her hairpin, phoenix-shaped, hangs loose, a cloud along her path.
Listen—the well-pulley's faint creak, a delicate, silver sound.
The wutong leaves begin to stir, a chill thought to compound.
Through window cracks, the flowing light, swift as a fleeting wing, / Tells empty beams the swallows' tale, a hollow murmuring.
Startled by mistake—the bamboo knocks, wind at the door— / My old friend, promised, still has not arrived as before.
I recall the bamboo grove, where new verses we'd trace / With careful nails—now early traces, fragrant marks her finger left in space.
I fear, by habit's course, the silk fan's favor will grow thin, / And once again, the autumn's mood will set its chill within.
By West Lake in days gone by, painted boats would often stray, / Sighing, how many times they've haunted dreams, night and day.
Her rainbow sash feels cold, on layered waves that never rest, / Musk-like mist turns to flying rain, dampening the mermaid's silk, at best, / And secretly swelling with crimson tears, suppressed.
In single cloth, we shared the night, where heart of waves we'd dwell, / Jade flute played beneath the moon, rainbow skirts began to swell; / Toward the dawn, her flower-face showed not a trace of frail.
Yet fragrant beauty falls so swift; I turn—pale mist consumes the pale, / The mirror empty, painted screens within the gauze's veil.
The fading cicada sings its tune, through Western Garden's air it rings, / Filling it with crimson grief and emerald sorrowings.
I think, accustomed to the ease of Wu Palace's retreat.
In dim willows we sought the cool, by dawn's bank, stars obsolete, / Where dewdrops formed and bubbles rose, ephemeral and fleet.
Silk threads from a lotus root, moments of joy we'd prolong.
Peach-wood mat lies smooth, reflecting waves of Xiang in its throng, / There were radiant blossoms, lush plum and ice, together strong.
Now, at my temples, frost points bleak; half a chest of autumn verse, / And regrets teem on moth-eaten paper, a mournful universe.