Writing of Thoughts in the Early Winter
I catch sight of the scene in th’ garden pond
Where lotus is withered and daisy’s dried.
The chilly wind encroaches my night pillow,
And the frost makes my dress-up terrified.
The wind on river rolls ahead in red;
Tangerines before my court are yellow dyed.
I’m to dispel my woes by writing poems,
But the scene makes my sorrows multiplied.