Hard it is to meet,even harder it is to part,
Weakening east wind, therefore withering flowers.
Silkworms keep spinning till death comes in spring,
Candle tears do not dry till every bit burnt to the ash.
In the morning mirror, grief arises from whitening temple hair,
Chanting of verses at night,
brings feelings of chilling moonlight.
From here to paradise, the way is not too far,
O diligent bluebird,
do bring my messages over to her.
* A Chinese lute.