Lotus flowers are wilting and autumn plaited straw mats chills through,
I remove my silk robe and alone I board a canoe.
Who is it that correspondence send darting through clouds?
By the time I've written a reply, high above the west chamber hangs a full moon.
Flowers wither and petals fall while water takes its course,
Lovers harbour the same yearning, when apart both hearts melancholy brew.
Futile are means to clear the head of sentiments so blue,
One may ease the frown, only to find the heart in sorrow drowns.
LI Qingzhao – A Sprig of Plum Blossom