A Slow Song

The mallow in the garden green in hue

Awaits the sun to dry the morning dew.

The radiant spring spreads its nourishing light；

All living things become then fresh and bright.

I dread the coming of the autumn drear

When leaves turn yellow and red flowers sere.

A hundred streams flow eastwards to the sea.

When to return to the west can they be free？

If one does not make good use of his youth，

In vain will he pass his old age in ruth.