Chill and harsh the year draws to its close

and harsh the year draws to its close: In my cotton dress I seek sunlight on the porch. In the southern orchard all the leaves are gone: In the north garden rotting boughs lie heaped. I empty my cup and drink it down to the dregs: I look towards the kitchen, but no smoke rises. Poems and books lie piled beside my chair: But the light is going and I shall not have time to read them. My life here is not like the Agony in Ch'ēn, But often I have to bear bitter reproaches. Let me then remember, to calm my heart's distress, That the Sages of old were often in like case.