贺新郎·甚矣吾衰矣

Of the garden pavilions in this district I have written this tune for every one. The other day, sitting alone in the Tingyun Hall, the sound of water and the color of hills came vying to delight me; thinking that the stream and the hills wished to be treated in the same way, I made these few lines, hoping they may somewhat resemble Yuanming's thoughts of friends and kin.

How complete is my decay! I grieve that all my life my friends have scattered, and how few are left to me now! White hair hangs down in vain, three thousand zhang long; I laugh once at all the business of the world. I ask what thing it is can make a man glad. I see the blue hills as full of grace, and I think the blue hills see me in the same way: in feeling and in looks, we are somewhat alike.

A cup of wine, and I scratch my head by the eastern window. I think of Yuanming: the poem 'Standing Clouds' just finished—this was the savor of that hour. Those east of the river, steeped in the hunt for fame—how should they know the subtle truth of coarse wine? I turn my head and cry aloud: the clouds fly up, the wind rises. I do not grieve that I have not seen the men of old; I grieve that the men of old did not see my wildness. Those who know me—two or three.