I ascend high on the storied pavilion,
	
	Below, mountains scatter in disorder;
	   the uncutivated plain extends
	      far in the light mist.
		  
 	In the light mist,
	
	Crows have returned to their nests;
	
	The evening horn is heard in the dusk.
	
	Burnt-out incense, left-over wine -
	   my mecancholy heart!
	   
	The evening wind hastens
	   the wu t'ung leaves fall.
	   
	The wu t'ung leaves fall,
	      		  
	Again the autumn becomes beautiful,
	
	Again the heart is lonesome.