The Chrysanthemums In The Eastern Garden

The days of my youth left me long ago. And now in their turn dwindle my years of prime. With what thoughts of sadness and loneliness I walk again in this cold, deserted place. In the midst of the garden long I stand alone. The sun shine, faint, the wind and dew chill. The autumn lettuce is tangled and turned to seed. The fair trees are blighted and withered away. All that is left are a few chrysanthemum flowers. That have newly opened beneath the waddled fence. I had brought wine and meant to fill my cup. When the sight of these made me stay my hand. I remember, when I was young. How easily my mood changed from sad to gay. If I saw wine, no matter what season. Before I drank it, my heart was already glad. But now that age comes. A moment of joy is harder and harder to get. And always I fear that when I am quite old. The strongest liquor will leave me comfortless. Therefore I ask you, late chrysanthemum flower. At this sad season why do you bloom alone? Though well I know that it was not for my sake. Taught by you, for a while I will open my face.