永遇乐·落日熔金

The setting sun is molten gold, the evening clouds joined like jade—but where am I now? The willows are dyed in thick mist, the flute's plum-blossom air is plaintive: how much of spring is in the air? The Lantern Festival, and mild, harmonious weather—and yet in due course, how could wind and rain not come? Friends come to call with perfumed carriages and gemmed horses; I must decline these wine companions and poetry friends.

In the Central Plains' days of splendor the women's quarters had much leisure, and I remember how we prized the fifteenth above all. Hats trimmed with kingfisher feathers, willow sprays wound with gold thread, all clustered and vying to look their finest. Now I am worn and haggard, with wind-blown hair and frosty temples, and I fear to go out at night. Better to stay beneath the curtain and listen to other people's talk and laughter.