渔家傲·近日门前溪水涨

Of late the stream before our gate has risen; how many times has your boat stolen its way to visit me? The boat is too small to spread the red bed canopy — nothing to be done: within the shadow of our brief joy, vain regret.

I wish that I might be a red lotus, growing year after year upon the autumn river. And further wish that you might be the ripples beneath the flowers — with no barrier between, following the wind and the rain, forever coming and going.