Tune: “Silk-washing Stream”
The sky is barred with mountains steeped in flushing cloud;
The windless Southern Stream exhales cold blossoms proud;
Cottages in far-off woods with crying crows are still loud.
How far away in dreams, oh! Is my native land!
Awake from wine, I find sky-scraping mountains stand;
For miles and miles the moon shines on the plain of sand.
The cottage was cold and damp.