Song of the Bewitching Immortal: Just Past the Hairpin Year

Just past the year of the hairpin, her cloud-black hair first bound up, she learned singing and dancing. At the feasts, before the cups, young lords offered what they would. She counted it a trifle — one smile repaid; a thousand pieces of gold she would scorn to glance at. She only ever feared that the blossom-light of her youth, so brief, would be stolen away, and the bright hours pass in vain.

Now that she has received your favor and care, be kind to her and be master of the flower. Ten thousand li of rose-red sky — why not join hands and go home together? Forever cast off the companions of the flower-world: let no one any more see her, morning cloud and evening rain.