The East Wind Fails, and a Hundred Flowers Wither

It is hard to meet, and harder still to part; the east wind is powerless, and a hundred flowers wither.

The silkworm spins its silk until death; the candle sheds tears until its wick burns to ash.

At dawn, she worries as she looks in the mirror, fearing her cloudlike hair has changed; at night, she chants and must feel the moonlight's chill.

Penglai Mountain is not far from here. Bluebirds, please go and look for me often.