Yi Soong-in. (14th Century)
Empty the courtyard where we paced together,
Counting the yellow blossoms in the spring.
Here, where we used to talk of ancient sages,
Your poem[5] flaps upon the mouldered wall.
The wind has torn it and the rain has beaten
Through tattered screens upon the words you wrote.
Yet still I trace your brush strokes and remember
Your “Autumn Song,” the tears with which you wrote.