| Through the long day the skylarks have not sung enough |
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| Dew, scatter if you will |
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| Mists above the crimson leaves |
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| Turning and turning, these summer days, to my regret |
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| For the one I await the path must have ended |
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| More melancholy than the bright moon |
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| Under the lamplight that grows feeble |
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| The Great sky hazy with scents of plum blossoms |
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| Neglectful, I have not died of love |
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| Wakeful for last year's call that I loved |
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