الصعود إلى المرتفعات / Ascending the Heights

الصعود إلى المرتفعات / Ascending the Heights

The wind is fierce, the sky is high, the apes cry mournfully;

The islet is clear, the sand is white, the birds wheel in flight.

Boundless, the falling leaves come rustling down;

Endless, the Long River comes rolling on.

Ten thousand miles from home, grieving for autumn, I often find myself a guest;

A lifetime of ills, alone I climb the terrace.

Hardship and bitter regret frost my hair anew;

Down and out, I have lately put down my cup of mellow wine.