Classic Poem

Let not the deep cup be filled
with rich, amber-colored wine;
My mind was eased of sorrow
even before I become intoxicated.
Distant bells have already echoed
in the evening breeze.
My dream is broken
as the scent of incense vanishes.
Too small, the hairpin of the gold
of warding-of-cold
loosens its hold of my tresses.
I awake to find myself blankly facing
the read flickering glow
of the candle