In a sharp gale from the wide sky apes are whimpering, Birds are flying homeward over the clear lake and white sand, Leaves are dropping down like the spray of a waterfall, While I watch the long river always rolling on. I have come three thousand miles away. Sad now with autumn And with my hundred years of woe, I climb this height alone. Ill fortune has laid a bitter frost on my temples, Heart-ache and weariness are a thick dust in my wine.