Soft breeses, mild sunshine,
spring is still young.
The sudden change to light apparel
brightened my spirit.
But upon awakening from slumber,
I felt the cilly air;
The plum flower withered in my hair.
Where can I call my native land?
Forget - I can not, except in wine
when I drown my care.
Incense was lighted when I went to sleep;
Though the embers are now cold,
the warmth of wine still holds.
Li Qingzhao (1084–c. 1151)