Classic Poem

Cold, cold the year draws to its end,
The mole-cricket makes a doleful chirping
The chill wind increases its violence
My wandering love has no coat to cover him.
He gave his embroidered furs to the Lady of Luo,
But from me his bedfellow he is quite estranged
Sleeping alone in the depth of the long night
In a dream I thought I saw the light of his face
My dear one thought of our old joys together,
He came in his chariot and gave me the front reins
I wanted so to prolong our play and laughter,
To hold his hand and go back with him in his coach.
But when he had come he would not stay long
Nor stop to go with me to the Inner Chamber.
Truly without the falcon's wings to carry me
How can I rival the flying wind's swiftness?
I go and lean at the gate and think of my grief,
My falling tears wet the double gates.