I yield to the great waves, and my sorrow is increased.
I will return. I will go home. Oh-h-h-h-h!
Even for a little time, one cannot rely upon the World.
I long to pick the immortal herbs on the hill of P'êng.
POIGNANT GRIEF DURING A SUNNY SPRING
BY LI T'AI-PO
The East wind has come again.
I see the jade-green grass and realize that it is Spring.