Classic Poem

One ring of clear chimes through the evening mist;
the waters ebb, the sands lie flat
east of the deserted courtyard.
Here, beneath the trees, a lady:
where did she come from?
Outside the window, a good friend,
suddenly met again.
Desolate, the country inn,
no fine brew to drink;
quiet, lonely, the isolated village,
just this old man is left.
White-haired, let us agree to meet, you and I together;
we'll pour our hearts out, and avoid
the ordinary flowers.