No end in sight to the days of $(my)$ wandering,
$(My)$ autumn grief draws to a close toward dusk.
Miasmic vapors hover above the old kingdom of K'uei;
A light frost falls on Ch'u's imperial palace.
Grasses rival the kingfisher sheen of mountain mist,
The flowers stay on as chill leaves turn crimson.
Year after year there's just a little shedding:
It's so unlike the garden back home.