Classic Poem

Frail, frail, lone-growing bamboo,
roots clasping the high hill's edge;
to join with my lord now in marriage,
a creeper clinging to the moss.
Creepers have their time to grow,
husband and wife their proper union.
A thousand miles apart, we made our vow,
far far — mountain slopes between us.
Thinking of you makes one old;
your canopied carriage, how slow its coming!
These flowers sadden me — orchis and angelica,
petals unfurled, shedding glory all around;
if no one plucks them in blossom time
they'll wilt and die with the autumn grass.
But if in truth you will keep your promise,
how could I ever be untrue?