To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream" Saddened by the dying spring, I am too weary to rearrange my hair. Plum flowers, newly fallen, drift about the courtyard in the evening wind. The moon looks pale and light clouds float to and fro. Incense lies idle in the jade duck-shaped burner. The cherry-red bed-curtain is drawn close, concealing its tassels. Can Tung-Hsi's horn still ward off the cold?