Evening from Xianyang’s West Tower
- Poetry of Xu Hun

I climb the tower — and sorrow, wide as earth, I meet;

The reeds and willows seem an isle where river‑waters beat.

Clouds o’er the stream are born, the sun sinks past the hall;

The mountain‑rain draws near — the tower‑wind foretells its fall.

Birds seek the green‑grown waste, where Qin’s proud gardens lay;

Cicadas cry in leaves that shroud the Han’s decay.

Ask not, O wayfarer, of deeds that time has slain —

The River Wei flows east, and will not turn again.