English Rendering
Up in the heavens, the starry river turns;
Down here on earth, curtains, drapes hang low.
The air chilling, my tears dripping, dousing my mat and pillow;
I rise to disrobe my silken o'erclothes, and idly wonder
How old the night has grown.
‘Tis a robe of small lotus-pods, patched on in green,
And a few leaves of the lotus, gilt-threaded, yellowed.
The same seasonal clime of old time, the selfsame old-time robe;
Only my sentiments aren't quite the same, as those I'd known
In our days in time of old.
