In the Mao-ling tomb lies the lad named Liu,
Guest of the autumn wind.
At night we hear his whinnying horse
At dawn not a hoof-print there.
From painted balustrades, the cassia trees
Cast down autumnal fragrance.
Over six-and-thirty palaces grow
Emerald earth-flowers.

The courtiers of Wei harnessed their chariots
To travel a thousand leagues.
The vinegar wind from the eastern passes
Arrowed their eyes.
Vainly bearing the moon of Han
I went out of the palace gates.
Remembering the emperor, my pure tears
Dropped down like molten lead.

Withering orchids bade them farewell
On the Hsian-yang road.
If God could suffer as we do
God too would grow old.
Bearing my dew-plate, I journeyed alone
By the light of the cold, wild moon,
Already Wei-cheng lay far behind
And its waters faintly calling.