To The Tune Of Thinking Of Maiden Chin Poem by Li Qingzhao

I ascent high on the sotried pavilion,
Below,mountains scatter in disorder;
The unclutivated plain extends
far in the light mist.
In the light mist,
Crows have returned to their mests;
The evening horm is heard in the dusk.
Burnt-out incense, left-over wine
my melancholy heart!
[The evening wind] hastens
The wu tong leaves fall.
The wu tong leaves fall,
Again the autumn becaomes beautiful,
Again the heart is lonesome.