Classic Poem

To begin I cut fine silk of Qi,
white and pure as frost or snow,
shape it to make a paired-joy fan,
round, round as the luminous moon,
to go in and out of my lord's breast;
when lifted, to stir him a gentle breeze
But always I dread the coming of autumn,
cold winds that scatter the burning heat,
when it will be laid away in the hamper,
love and favor cut off midway.