In the attitude, and with the manner, of the woman of old,

Full of grief, she stands in the glorious morning light.

The dew is like the tears of to-day;

The mosses like the garments of years ago.

Her resentment is that of the Woman of the Hsiang River;

Her silence that of the concubine of the King of Ch'u.

Still and solitary in the sweet-scented mist,

As if waiting for her husband's return.