Classic Poem

Then and now rivers and mountains have no certain lot.
In the painted bugle's cry,
Herd upon herd of horses come and gone.
This view abrim with barren chill, who could express?
The west wind has blown all the scarlet maples old.

Hidden griefs from long ago, where could I find the words?
Ironclad steeds, gold-tipped spears,
A green tomb by the road at yellow dusk.
My feelings grow ever deeper, who knows how deep?
Setting sun deep in mountains, rain deep in autumn.