虞美人·春怨

The wind returns to the small courtyard, the weeds of the garden turn green; the willow's eyes carry on the spring. Leaning at the rail half the day, alone and wordless: still the sound of bamboo, the new moon, are as in years gone by.

The flutes and songs are not yet scattered, the wine-cups still set out; upon the pool's face the ice begins to melt. Candle bright, incense dim, the painted hall lies deep; my hair at the temples is frosted with grey, like lingering snow, and my thoughts are more than I can bear.