望海潮·洛阳怀古

The plum blossoms are sparse and pale; the thawing ice flows away; the east wind has secretly changed the shining year. At Golden Valley, that fair roaming; along Bronze Camel Lane; in the new-cleared weather I tread softly on the level sand. Long I remember following the wrong carriage: just then the catkins whirled and the butterflies danced, and thoughts of spring came thronging. Beneath the willows, along the peach paths, spring's color was scattered into every house.

At the western garden we drank at night while the pipes sounded: there were bright lamps that hindered the moon, and flying canopies that brushed the blossoms. The orchid garden is not yet empty, but the traveler is growing old; to come again, every single thing calls for a sigh. In the misty dusk the tavern flag slants. Only, leaning upon the tower, I gaze as far as sight will go, and from time to time see the roosting crows. Helplessly, the longing to go home follows the water in secret to the sky's end.