鐔津文集 18.133

18.133

At my forest gate, I am weary of listening to the frequent sound of rain; / sorrowing that the spring breeze lasts for only ninety days. / Dampening and striking mountain blossoms, the apricots are about to open; / gradually encroaching, the years and months have already overtaken man. / When will it be good to go and wander by the southern ravine? / Every night in vain I come out to gaze at the Northern Star. / Sitting in sorrow, there are no more guests in carriage or on horse; / I only cherish my poetic brush, idly keeping it close.