Water and sky, as dusk folds down, together blend
in a grey green mist
Clear silhouettes of the trees are limned on a
sunset of rose and amethyst.
Moon doth creep from the bed of the deep paling
the storm-black waves afar;
Through frosted rushes ripe oranges are gleaming
golden star on star.
I am void of cares and affairs, so happily drink
and dream in peace.
Loud and shrill may the reed-pipes trill; when
they touch my heart they cease.
But my ten little painted ships to-night, where
shall they anchored lie?
At the foot of the Tung-t‘ing mountain, on the
cold deep breast of lake T‘ai,
