SPRING GRIEF AND RESENTMENT BY LI T'AI-PO

There is a white horse with a gold bridle to the East of the Liao Sea. Bed-curtains of open-work silk—embroidered quilt—I sleep with the Spring wind. The setting moon drops level to the balcony, it spies upon me. The candle is burnt out. A blown flower drifts in through the inner door—it mocks at the empty bed.