I grieve that the white sun hides in the West.
The wild goose has taken the place of the swallow—Oh-h-h-h-h—I hear the pattering, falling noises of Autumn.
Dark are the rain clouds; the colour of the town of Ch'in is dark.
When the moon glistens on the Road of the Two-Edged Sword—Oh-h-h-h-h—
I and you, even though in different provinces, may drink our wine opposite each other,
And listen to the talking
Of our hearts.