Glazed silk, newly cut, smooth, glittering, white,

As white, as clear, even as frost and snow.

Perfectly fashioned into a fan,

Round, round, like the brilliant moon,

Treasured in my Lord's sleeve, taken out, put in—

Wave it, shake it, and a little wind flies from it.

How often I fear the Autumn Season's coming

And the fierce, cold wind which scatters the blazing heat.

Discarded, passed by, laid in a box alone;

Such a little time, and the thing of love cast off.