八声甘州·对潇潇暮雨洒江天

Facing the soughing evening rain that sprinkles the river sky, one washing of clear autumn. By degrees the frosty wind turns chill and sharp; the passes and rivers lie cold and forsaken; the fading glow rests upon the tower. Everywhere the red fades and the green is pared away; slowly the glory of the year draws to its end. Only the waters of the Yangtze flow eastward in silence.

I cannot bear to climb high and gaze far, to look toward my distant homeland, with thoughts of returning past all restraining. I sigh over the journeys of these years — why have I bitterly lingered on? I think of my fair one gazing from her bower, and how many times she has mistaken a boat upon the horizon for my returning sail. How should she know that I, leaning here against the railing, am even now so lost in sorrow?