江城子·乙卯正月二十日夜记梦

Ten years now, the living and the dead, both far away and lost to sight; not thinking of it, and yet never forgetting. A thousand li away, a lonely grave — nowhere to speak of my desolation. Even should we meet, you would not know me: dust upon my face, and hair like frost.

Last night, in a quiet dream, I suddenly came home: by the little window, you were dressing and arranging your hair. We gazed at each other without a word, and only the tears ran down in a thousand lines. Year after year I know the place where the heart breaks: a bright moonlit night, the low pine ridge.