It trails the wind, comes stealing in at night / Bedews all things with thin and soundless threads.
When on this ground we once do say farewell, / Alone, far-flung, we’ll tread a thousand miles.
The long, grim cloak of war do I cast off / The skirt of girlhood I put on with love.
The dragon that can be penned in is no true dragon.
Though wind blows through the bamboo sparse / When it has passed the wood does not the sound retain.
The honking osprey rests upon / The islands of the River great / The lady of good bearing is / The man of virtue’s perfect mate.