Classic Poem

In the northwest there is a Weaving-lady,
How dazzling are her silks, both flowered and plain!
From the bright dawn she plies her loom and shuttle,
When the sun goes down, not a piece of cloth is made!
All through the long night she sighs heavily,
Her mournful cries pierce the clouds in the blue.
“Your handmaid now must keep her empty chamber,
Her husband has gone marching off to war.
Although he swore to return in three years' time,
Nine months of spring have now already passed.
A solitary bird goes winging round the trees,
Its plaintive cry tells it has lost the flock.
I wish I were the sun that shines in the south,
To send my beams hastening to see my lord.”