UNTITLED By Li Shangyin

Hard it was to meet you –

hard as well to say goodbye.

The east wind’s powerless1, all flowers die.

Only when a spring silk-worm perishes,

would its silk be exhausted;

Only when a candle burns to ashes,

would its tears dry.

At dawn by the mirror,

you’d worry your hair may change;

By night reciting poems,

you’d feel the moonlight’s chill above high.

The Penglai Mount3 is not far from here:

Green bird4, to look for her please diligently try.