Man jiang hong:
Sent to Su’an upon Approaching the Capital
The willow bank leans aslant;
From beyond the sail’s shadow the east wind is blowing hard.
The traveler’s sorrow comes before the body rises;
Now and then the dawn chill stirs.
Before my eyes the rivers and hills draw an old grief;
Vast and dim where in the ravine can I hide my boat?
I recall how jade flutes and golden pipes resonated in midstream
But the present is not the past.
Spring is still here;
My clothes are woefully thin.
The wild geese are gone;
There is no messenger for my letter.
Alas, the journey has made me wan and sallow,
My sickly waist as though pared.
It is a stone’s throw from the capital, but he hasn’t appeared,
Again missing our morning appointment.
Perhaps in the dying watch I’ll read a book in silence
And drink a sad cup alone.