Everyone is full of praise for the beauty of the South;
What can I do but end my days an exile in the South?
The spring river is bluer than the sky;
As it rains, in a painted barge I lie.
Bright as the moon is she who serves the wine;
Like frost or frozen snow her white wrists shine.
I’m not old yet: let me not depart!
For going home will surely break my heart!