Soft breeses, mild sunshine,
	   sring is still young.

	The sudden change to light apparel
	   brightened my spirit.

	But upon awakening from slumber,
	   I felt the cilly air;

	The plum flower withered in my hair.

	Where can I call my native land?

	Forget - I can not, except in wine
	   when I drown my care.

	Incense was lighted when I went to sleep;

	Though the embers are now cold,
	   the warmth of wine still holds.