Pure, Serene Music
Wang Anguo
Spring cannot be retained,
Though orioles have exhausted their song.
The ground is strewn with fallen reds like brocade stained.
The southern garden washed by rain all the night long.
For the first time the songstress plucks the pipa string;
At dawn her yearning soars into the sky.
The painted hall with crimson door is no place for spring;
The vernal breeze with willowdown wafts high.
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