The evening sun crosses the western range,
The many ravines swiftly have turned to dusk;
The moon in the pines brings the evening cool,
The breeze over mountain rills rivets my attention.
Woodsmen returning crave their rest,
In the mist birds begin choosing their perches.
There's only I waiting for you to come,
A lone lute biding by the wisteria path.
Meng Hao-jan 689~740