Classic Poem

Yellow winds blow in from the north,
clouds turn dark and ugly;
stout men of Yün-chou province
blow their bugles at night.
The general, sword across his lap,
sits waiting for the dawn;
Ho-kan Mountain trembles, the moon
moves down the sky.
At their troughs, the horses whinny;
the soldiers eat their fill.
In the past, their clothes were tattered —
now they wear broidered coats.
Cantering along the sands,
they shoot the wild hawk;
where autumn grasses blanket earth,
the Khan flees fast away.