What do these halls of jasper mean,
  and shining floor,
Where tapestries of satin screen
  window and door?
A lady on a lonely seat,
  embroidering
Fair flowers which seem to smell as sweet
  as buds in spring.
Swallows flit past, a zephyr shakes
  the plum-blooms down;
She draws the blind, a goblet takes
  her thoughts to drown.
And now she sits in tears, or hums,
  nursing her grief
That in her life joy rarely comes
  to bring relief. . . . . . .
Oh for the humble turtle's flight,
  my mate and I;
Not the lone crane far out of sight
  beyond the sky!