Partridge Sky: Cold Sun Rises to My Lattice Window

Cold sunlight, bleak and sighing, climbs the latticed window; the paulownia must hate last night's frost. When the wine is done I love still more the bitter pressed tea; when dreams break, the scent of the ruinao incense suits me best.

Autumn is spent, the days are still long; Zhongxuan's longing for far places grows yet more desolate. Better to take what comes and grow drunk before the cup, and not fail the yellow chrysanthemums by the eastern fence.