The stream reflects the lean foliage of a pine—
An old pine of unremembered years.
The cold moonlight gleams on the tremulous water,
And pours into my room by the window door.
I prolong my futile singing to-night,
Deploring thee—how deeply, O prince!
For no more shalt thou see a true vassal like An-tao.
My song, ceasing, leaves the grief in my heart.