Here a mortal once sailed up to Heaven on a crane,
And the Yellow-Crane Kiosque will for ever remain;
But the bird flew away and will come back no morẹ
Though the white clouds are there as the white clouds of yore.
Away to the east lie fair forests of trees,
From the flowers on the west comes a scent-laden breeze,
Yet my eyes daily turn to their far-away home,
Beyond the broad River, its waves, and its foam.

(London, 1898)