THE COOL WIND OF EVENING BLOWS BIRD-SONG TO A WINDOW WHERE THE MAIDEN SITS. SHE IS EMBROIDERING FLOWER-PATTERNS ON SILK.

HER HEAD IS RAISED; HER WORK FALLS FROM HER FINGERS; HER THOUGHTS HAVE FLOWN TO SOMEONE FAR AWAY.

“A BIRD CAN EASILY FIND ITS MATE AMONG THE LEAVES, BUT ALL A MAIDEN’S TEARS, FALLING LIKE RAIN FROM HEAVEN, WILL NOT BRING BACK HER DISTANT LOVER.”

SHE BENDS AGAIN TO HER EMBROIDERY: “I WILL WEAVE A LITTLE VERSE AMONG THESE FLOWERS OF HIS ROBE ... PERHAPS HE WILL READ IT AND COME BACK AGAIN.” [Li Po]