Classic Poem

When a little child,
She was reared in a golden house,
Now ripe and lovely, she dwells
In the imperial palace of purple.
She will come forth from the innermost chamber,
A mountain flower in her glossy hair,
Robed in pink embroidered silk;
And always return at evening,
Accompanying the imperial palanquin.
Only, alas! — the hours of dance and song
Swiftly vanish into the sky
To tint, perhaps, the flying clouds in happy colors!