Classic Poem

The past is only fit to be regretted.
It stares unbanished in my face
Now autumn winds have claimed the court and moss usurped the stairs.
The shades hang down in rows, idle and unraised,
Throughout the day, for no one calls.

My golden sword is laid away.
My valor lies in weeds,
When nights are cold, the weather still, and a haloed moon is out,
I think of all that marble palace
Mirrored empty in the Huai.