Our host, providing abundant wine to make the night mellow,
Asks his guest from Yang-chou to play for us on the lute.
Toward the moon that whitens the city-wall, black crows are flying,
Frost is on ten thousand trees, and the wind blows through our clothes;
But a copper stove has added its light to that of flowery candles,
And the lute plays The Green Water , and then The Queen of Ch'u .
Once it has begun to play, there is no other sound:
A spell is on the banquet, while the stars grow thin. . . .
But three hundred miles from here, in Huai, official duties await him,
And so it's farewell, and the road again, under cloudy mountains.