定风波·自春来惨绿愁红

Ever since spring came the green has turned sad and the red distressed; my heart finds no pleasure in anything. The sun climbs the flower-tips, the orioles thread the willow strands — and still I lie pressed beneath the scented quilt. The warm softness wasted, the glossy cloud of hair fallen loose; all day listless, sick of combing and arraying myself. Nothing to be done: I hate that the heartless one went off and left never a word.

Had I known it would come to this, I would have locked his carved saddle away at the start. Before the study window, with nothing but fine paper and brush, I would have held him to his lessons. Always at his side, never to be left — idly taking up my needlework to sit beside him. And with me — so that our youthful years need not slip away in vain.