In the land of Wu the mulberry leaves are green, And thrice the silkworms have gone to sleep. In East Luh where my family stay, I wonder who is sowing those fields of ours. I cannot be back in time for the spring doings, Yet I can help nothing, traveling on the river. The south wind blowing wafts my homesick spirit And carries it up to the front of our familiar tavern. There I see a peach tree on the east side of the house With thick leaves and branches waving in the blue mist. It is the tree I planted before my parting three years ago. The peach tree has grown now as tall as the tavern roof, While I have wandered about without returning. Ping-yang, my pretty daughter, I see you stand By the peach tree and pluck a flowering branch. You pluck the flowers, but I am not there How your tears flow like a stream of water! My little son, Po-chin, grown up to your sister's shoulders, You come out with her under the peach tree, But who is there to pat you on the back? When I think of these things, my senses fail, And a sharp pain cuts my heart every day. Now I tear off a piece of white silk to write this letter, And send it to you with my love a long way up the river.