Jade dew lies upon the withered and wounded forest of maple-trees.

On the Sorceress Hill, over the Sorceress Gorge, the mist is desolate and dark.

The ripples of the river increase into waves and blur with the rapidly flowing sky.

The wind-clouds at the horizon become confused with the Earth. Darkness.

The myriad chrysanthemums have bloomed twice. Days to come—tears.

The solitary little boat is moored, but my heart is in the old-time garden.

Everywhere people are hastening to measure and cut out their Winter clothes.

At sunset, in the high City of the White Emperor, the hurried pounding of washed garments.