For ever hard to meet, and as hard to part.
Each flower spoiled in the failing East wind.
Spring's silkworms wind till death their heart's threads:
The wick of the candle turns to ash before its tears dry.
Morning mirror's only care, a change at her cloudy temples:
Saying over a poem in the night,
does she sense the chill in the moonbeam?
Not far, from here to Fairy Hill.
Bluebird, be quick now, spy me out the road.

here's another translation of the first four verses:

So hard for us to meet, Harder still to part.
Languid though the east wind, Faded flowers are blown apart.
The silkworm’s silk is exhausted, Only when its life is spent;
The candle’s tears are dried, When itself to cinder’s burnt.