They tell me that the geese this Spring
From far Canton their journey wing.
The flowers they see, and bid farewell
To the warm Ocean's southern swell.
By Lo-fu Hills they sail slong
Until the melting snow be gone.
Such things the soldiers' spirits feel:
And hopes of home they sadly steal.
Yet frost and mist from year to year
These hills dispart, retaining here
The geese; that never should have crossed
The lakes where Autumn brings but frost.