Flowers, as high as my window, hurt the heart of a wanderer For I see, from this high vantage, sadness everywhere. The Silken River, bright with spring, floats between earth and heaven Like a line of cloud by the Jade Peak, between ancient days and now. ...Though the State is established for a while as firm as the North Star And bandits dare not venture from the western hills, Yet sorry in the twilight for the woes of a longvanished Emperor, I am singing the song his Premier sang when still unestranged from the mountain.