In days when I was young and didn't know the taste of sorrow
I like to climb the storied tower,
I like to climb the storied tower;
To write the latest odes I forced myself to tell of sorrow.
Precious hairpin, broken, halved
At the Peach-Leaf Ferry where
We parted; darkening mist and willow shround the place.
I dread to climb the tower-top stair;
right and wrong gain and loss each hard to picture clearly
so I began to study wisdom of the ancents willy-nilly
but closed the books I'd double up wth laughter
and have to get up pace the floor and rub my belly
I wrote this for fun when drunk.
a thousand hands held high to heaven
swept along with a torrent of shouts