A night thought on Terrace Tower

Far through the night a harp is sighing

With a sadness of wind and rain in the strings.

There's a solitary lantern, a bugle call

And beyond Terrace Tower down goes the moon.

Fragrant grasses have changed and faded

While still I have been hoping that my old friend would come.

There are no more messengers I can send him,

Now that the wild geese have turned south.