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.