The sun has sunk behind the western hill,

And darkness glides across the vale below;

Between the firs the moon shines cold and


No breezes whisper to the streamlet’s flow.

Belated woodsmen homeward hurry past,

Birds seek their evening refuge in the tree:

O my beloved, wilt thou come at last?

With lute, among the flowers, I wait for


Meng Hao-jan, A. D. 689-740

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