雨霖铃·寒蝉凄切

The cold cicadas cry shrill; before the long pavilion at evening, the sudden rain has just ceased. At the city gate we drink in the tent with heavy hearts; even as we linger, the orchid-wood boat urges departure. Hand in hand we gaze at each other through tear-filled eyes, and cannot speak for choking. I think: I go on and on, a thousand li of misty water, and the evening haze lies deep over the vast sky of Chu.

Lovers from of old have always been wounded by parting — how much more in this cold and desolate season of autumn! Tonight, where shall I wake from wine? On a bank of willows, in the morning wind, beneath a waning moon. The years to come — surely the fair seasons and fine scenes will be spread out in vain. Even had I a thousand kinds of tender feeling, with whom should I share them?