The courtyard is
deserted when the guests are gone; I'm left alone, The painted hall half
veiled by pearly screen. A gentle breeze blows from the woods on a night
tender; As I turn back, a crescent moon so slender Over my little tower
can be seen.
Though spring still reigns, man will grow old in
vain. How long Will sorrow old and new remain? Behind the golden window
I feel weary; Awake, I still feel drowsy and dreary, But my drunk face is
gladdened by a flutist's song.