Cold, Cold, the Year Draws to Its Close

Keen and cold the year draws to its close; at dusk the mole-cricket sings its grief.

The cool wind has grown fierce by now; the traveller has no warm coat.

The brocade quilt was left behind at Luopu; the one who shared my cloak is far from me.

Sleeping alone through the long nights, in dreams I see his shining face.

My good man held fast to the joy of old, and bent his carriage to offer me the carriage strap.

I longed to be always brightly smiling, and to ride home with him in one chariot.

But scarcely had he come before he was gone; he did not stay within the inner chambers.

Truly I have no wings like the hawk—how should I fly upon the gale?

I look about to ease my heart; I stretch my neck and gaze into the distance.

I pace and linger, nursing my grief; my tears fall and wet both doors.