At eight, she stole a look at herself in the mirror,
Already able to paint her eyebrows long
At ten, she went out to tread on the green,
Her skirt made of lotus flowers.

At twelve, she learnt to play the small zither:
The silver plectrums she never took off
At fourteen, she was hid among her relatives,
And, one imagined, not married yet
At fifteen, she weeps in the spring wind,
Turning her face away from the swing.