To one who lonely sees the springtime close,
Each thing that strikes the eye bids the heart break,
Plum-blossoms tumbling as dishevelled snows
Down over steps of stone, 'tis vain
From off one's dress to shake:
Shaken, they cling again.

See, the wild geese are come,
But voice, but word, is dumb
So long a road no wistful dream may take.
Farewell's sorrowing
Is like grass in spring:
How far soe'er you go,
Yet faster will it grow.