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.
tr.by Lucy Chow Ho