Going to the mountains with a little

 dancing girl, aged fifteen

Two top-knots not yet plaited into one.

Of thirty years—just beyond half.

You who are really a lady of silks and satins

Are now become my hill and stream companion!

At the spring fountains together we splash and play:

On the lovely trees together we climb and sport.

Her cheeks grow rosy, as she quickens her sleeve-dancing:

Her brows grow sad, as she slows her song’s tune.

Don’t go singing the song of the Willow Branches,

When there’s no one here with a heart for you to break! 

Po Chü-i