To-night—the moon at Fu Chou.

In the centre of the Women's Apartments

There is only one to look at it.

I am far away, but I love my little son, my daughter.

They cannot understand and think of Ch'ang An.

The sweet-smelling mist makes the cloud head-dress damp,

The jade arm must be chilly

In this clear, glorious shining.

When shall I lean on the lonely screen?

When shall we both be shone upon, and the scars of tears be dry?