The Fifth Song
When geese southed, I wished they’d relay my greet,
When they northed, I wished they’d bring me th' Han's croon.
The geese flew higher and beyond my sight,
My torn heart did in vain my yen entreat.
Brows knitted, I plucked my lute neath the moon,
My yen in this cold fifth song reached its height.
Tr. Xiao Cao