Our Old Abode-Elegy on My Deceased Wife
Doors locked,curtain drawn down,mossy is our ground,
On winding corridor alone I would stroll around.
By lunar halo the rising wind is foretold.
How can the flowers bloom when drenched in dew cold?
I toss in bed when curtain’s hit by a bat;
I am surprised to hear in the net squeak a rat.
Alone I talk with your shadow by the lamplight.
How can I help singing with you“Rising at Night”?
Note:The poet describes his dreary old abode after his wife’s death.