English Rendering
Rank grasses grow, six dynasties' splendors no more;
The sky is lightly blue and clouds free as of yore.
Birds come and go into the gloom of wooded hills,
And songs and wails alike merge in murmuring rills.
Like countless window curtains falls late autumn rain:
High towers steeped in sunset, wind and flute's refrain.
O how I miss the lakeside sage of bygone days!
I see but ancient trees loom rugged in the haze.
