Classic Poem

On autumn nights the rapid weaver sings
To the hurried beat of batons in the southern suburbs.
My thoughts turn to you, behind those ninefold gates,
Night after night I am standing here in vain.
A flimsy curtain covers the northern window,
Moonbeams are shining through the western door.
How do I know that the glistening dew is falling?
I sit and stare at the droplets on the steps
How can I live so long apart from you?
Autumn is ending and winter is coming once more.