To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream" My courtyard is small, windows idle, spring is getting old. Screens unrolled cast heavy shadows. In my upper-story chamber, speechless, I play on my jasper lute. Clouds rising from distant mountains hasten the fall of dusk. Gentle wind and drizzling rain cause a pervading gloom. Pear blossoms can hardly keep from withering, but droop.