满庭芳·晚景

The hills are smeared with thin cloud, the sky runs into the withered grass; the painted horn's note dies away at the watch-tower's gate. I stay the departing boat a little, and together we raise the parting cup. How many of the old affairs of Penglai — in vain I look back: mist and haze in confusion. Beyond the slanting sun, ten thousand cold crows; a stream winding about the lonely village.

At this hour the soul dissolves: the perfume-pouch secretly untied, the silk girdle lightly parted. I have only won a name for faithlessness among the green towers. When shall we meet again? Upon breast and sleeves, in vain, the stains of weeping. In sorrow, I strain my gaze toward the high city walls: the lamps are already lit at dusk.