The fairy maid touches not the crimson unicorn;
The golden pot brims with amber wine, rich and warm.
The fox-fur lord delights in the everlasting night;
Cups pass like warm jade, vexing spring-onion fingers bright.
Eaves hold snowflakes large as palms, descending without cease;
The inner chamber feels only spring's harmonious peace.
Who knows a guest is craving sleep, alone and still?
The water-clock runs dry, the night deep, yet sleep won't come at will.
Flowers red and jade white do not keep him company;
He relies on Master Mulberry for his sole ally.
His home dwells near where the Hemp Maiden makes her abode;
He too can conjure skin of ice, a chilly mode.
He utterly scorns the scribe's fly-head stains of ink;
Too lazy to join official yellow, where bookworms sink.
Rather he follows human will, to spread or furl;
Though soft and pleasing, he's no greasy, pliant pearl.
The Wind Aunt and Frost Maiden both retreat and yield;
A mild warmth slowly grows upon the woolen field.
Plum blossoms break the snow, urging cold to depart;
Spring returns, men before flowers drink with joyous heart.
A maiden tries a light gown of misty sheer gauze;
Missing her time, she sits idle, without a cause.
Under green locust shadows, summer days are long;
The mortal world desires only a taste of cool, nothing wrong.
The green maid originally lacks coquettish grace;
Yet she presumes to hold the chamber, taking her place.
Autumn wind brings news overnight, a sudden blow;
Then again, she is seen discarded, forced to go.
When winter comes, he summons Mulberry back once more;
Instructs the grey-haired servant to gently brush and restore.
Used, he is spread out; stored, he is kept from sight;
Joy or anger never show upon his jade-like light.
Worldly affairs have their ups and downs, it's ever so;
Why let the heart be stirred, heaving three sighs of woe?