清平乐·独宿博山王氏庵

Hungry mice scurry about the bed; bats wheel and dance in the lamplight. On the roof the wind through the pines drives the pelting rain; the torn paper at the window talks to itself.

All my life, north of the passes and south of the river; come home at last, my hair is gray and my face is aged. Beneath the cloth quilt, waking from an autumn-night dream—before my eyes, ten thousand li of mountains and rivers.