How rare the moon, so round and clear!
With cup in hand, I ask of the blue sky,
"I do not know in the celestial sphere
What name this festive night goes by?"
I want to fly home, riding the air,
But fear the ethereal cold up there,
The jade and crystal mansions are so high!
Dancing to my shadow,
I feel no longer the mortal tie。
She rounds the vermilion tower,
Stoops to silk-pad doors,
Shines on those who sleepless lie。
Why does she, bearing us no grudge,
Shine upon our parting, reunion deny?
But rare is perfect happiness--
The moon does wax, the moon does wane,
And so men meet and say goodbye。
I only pray our life be long,
And our souls together heavenward fly!
