OVER THE PASS OF THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS TRAVELS THE EVENING SUN; THE HILL-FOLDS GATHER THEIR DEEP DARK; THE MOON LIGHTS UP COLD IN ITS TWISTED PINE-BRANCH; THE LITTLE BROOK SINGS COLD, AND THE COLD WIND SIGHS; THE WOOD CUTTERS ALL HAVE CARRIED THEIR BUNDLES HOME; THE WHEELING BIRDS ARE SETTLED IN THEIR TREES.

THE HOUR IS PAST THAT YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD COME. MY LUTE IS STILL ... LEANING AMONG THE VINES, WAITING IN THE COLD GLEN AMONG THE VINES. [MÊng Hai jan]