BY LI T'AI-PO

There is a white horse with a gold bridle to the East of the Liao Sea.
Bed-curtains of open-work silk — embroidered quilt — I sleep with the Spring wind.
The setting moon drops level to the balcony, it spies upon me. The candle is burnt out.
A blown flower drifts in through the inner door — it mocks at the empty bed.