鹊踏枝·谁道闲情抛掷久

Who says that idle feeling has long been thrown away? Whenever spring comes, the melancholy returns as before. Day after day, before the flowers, I suffer from wine; how could I complain that my rosy face grows thin in the mirror?

The green grass along the river, the willows upon the dike — I ask of this new grief, why must it come every year? I stand alone upon the little bridge, the wind filling my sleeves; a new moon over the flat woods, after all have gone home.