The sorrel horse with the black tail gallops, gallops, and neighs,

Lifting, curving, his grey-jade hoofs.

He shies from the flowing water, unwilling to cross,

As though he feared the mud for his embroidered saddlecloth.

The snow is white on the far frontier hills,

The clouds are yellow over the misty frontier sea.

I strike with my leather whip, there are ten thousand li to go.

How can I accomplish it, thinking of Spring in the Women's Apartments?