Classic Poem

The bells and drums lie cold
The towers stand in darkness
The moon shines on the wutong trees by a golden well
The inner gardens are closed
The small courtyard is empty
The falling flowers redden the fragrant dew.
The smoky willows grow heavy
The spring fog rolls lightly.
A lamp still shines in a high window facing the waters.
Idly I lean against the door.
Hidden tears fall on my robe.
I wait for a gentleman never more to return.