I
The plough has turned around and hangs o’er Western Tower,
None but the fireflies sail the gloom of Golden Bower.
The lonely moon which peeps in Palace of Long Gate
Will shed more sorrow on the dweller desolate.
II
Does Laurel Bower where grief reigns remember spring?
On the four golden walls the dusts of autumn cling.
The night holds up a mirror bright in azure sky
To show the fair on earth as lonely as on high.