The poem
The spring wind comes from the east and quickly passes, Leaving faint ripples in the wine of the golden bowl. The flowers fall, flake after flake, myriads together.
You, pretty girl, wine-flushed, Your rosy face is rosier still. How long may the peach and plum trees flower By the green-painted house? The fleeting light deceives man, Brings soon the stumbling age.
Rise and dance In the westering sun While the urge of youthful years is yet unsubdued! What avails to lament after one's hair has turned white like silken threads?