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