A faint phoenix-tail gauze, fragrant and doubled, Lines your green canopy, closed for the night.... Will your shy face peer round a moon-shaped fan, And your voice be heard hushing the rattle of my carriage? It is quiet and quiet where your gold lamp dies, How far can a pomegranate-blossom whisper? ...I will tether my horse to a river willow And wait for the will of the southwest wind.