The West winds tumble fallen leaves;
 Autumn 's yellow, though blooms are shy;
 I brush at dust upon my sleeves;
 The horses' hoofprints dot the frost;
 Moonlit cocks crow amid grain sheaves;
 The road to town: no passersby.

Fame 's not gained by effort or skill,
 And would fade away ten years hence.
 Please don't dance, but drink your fill.
 Six Dynasty tales flow away:
 Diluted as waters spread and spill.
 The world feels like dream and pretense.