A crowd of girls playing in the dusk,
And a wind-blown fragrance that fills the road!
Golden butterflies are sewn to the hems of their
skirts;
Their chignons are pinned with mandarin ducks
of jade.
Their maids wear cloaks of sheer crimson silk;
Purple brocade for the eunuchs who attend them.
Will they give a glance to one who's lost the way,
With hair turned white and a restless heart?