To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream"

Saddened by the dying spring, I am too weary
 to rearrange my hair.
Plum flowers, newly fallen, drift about the courtyard
 in the evening wind.
The moon looks pale and light clouds float
 to and fro.

Incense lies idle in the jade duck-shaped burner.
The cherry-red bed-curtain is drawn close,
 concealing its tassels.
Can Tung-Hsi's horn still ward off the cold?