孟冬寒气至

In the first month of winter the cold air comes; how bitter and shivering the north wind.

With much sorrow one knows the night is long; I lift my eyes and gaze on the ranged stars.

On the fifteenth the bright moon is full; by the twentieth the toad and hare grow wan.

A traveler came from far away, and left with me a written letter.

First it speaks of lasting longing; then of our long separation.

I put the letter in my breast and sleeve—for three years the characters have not faded.

With all my heart I hold this single devotion, fearing that you will not perceive it.