Nian Nu Jiao, a ci poem composed by Zhao Ding of the Song Dynasty

[Song Dynasty] Zhao Ding  -- Nian Nu Jiao In the small garden along the winding path, passing deep into the sparse woods, the hidden orchids give off a faint fragrance. No one is around the bamboo and birds, a pair of kingfisher feathers, flying and touching the slender cold jade. I want even more to inscribe a poem, evening brings a solitary mood, yet I fear it would wound my secluded loneliness. Better to be beneath the flowers, with a cup of fragrant wine offered to each other. Sighing as I recall the elegance of my homeland, willow catkins and spring dreams are brief, and the yellow millet is just cooked. Rolling up white silk and a thousand cups must urge me on, to wash away the honor and disgrace in my chest. Drunk, I bow to the southern mountains, let out one clear whistle, and stop reading the Li Sao. Lingering and delaying before returning, the bright moon still hangs over the tall trees.