To meet is hard; to part is hard as well.
The east wind fails; a hundred blooms must fall.
The silkworm spins its thread until it dies;
The candle weeps to ash before tears stall.
At morning’s mirror, dread the clouded hair;
Night-chants feel chill beneath the moon’s thin light.
To Penglai’s peaks the path is not so far—
Bluebirds, I beg you, make the kindly flight.