As I recovered from illness,
	my temples turned grey.
	
	I lied down to rest and watch the waning moon
	   climb up my screen.
	   
	Sweet mace with tender lips,boiled in hot water,
	
	Aromatic as tea.
	
	
	Books and poetry are so dear to me
	   when I sit idle against my pillow.
	   
	The outdoor scene becomes fresh when rain falls,
	
	All day long facing me lovingly
	
	Is the sween osmanthus.