洞仙歌·冰肌玉骨

When I was seven years old, I saw an old nun of Meizhou, surnamed Zhu — I have forgotten her name — ninety years of age. She said that once, following her teacher, she had gone into the palace of Meng Chang, the lord of Shu; on a very hot day, the lord of Shu and the Lady of the Flower Calyx took the cool of evening beside the Mohe Pool, and he made a song, which Zhu could recite in full. Now forty years have gone by, Zhu has long been dead, and no one any longer knows that song; I remembered only its first two lines. On an idle day I turned them over in my mind: surely they belong to the tune called Dongxian Ge? So I completed it as follows.

Skin of ice, bones of jade: naturally cool, without a trace of sweat. The wind comes into the waterside hall, and a hidden fragrance fills it. The embroidered curtain opens, and one spot of bright moon peeps in upon the sleeper: she has not yet slept, but lies pillowed aslant, the hairpin fallen and her hair in disorder.

He rises and takes her white hand; the court and gate are soundless; from time to time one sees the sparse stars crossing the River of Heaven. Let me ask how far the night has gone: the night is already at the third watch; the golden ripples grow pale, the Jade Rope turns low. Only, counting upon my fingers — when will the west wind come? Not knowing that the fleeting years, unseen, are stolen away.