Consolation

The balmy breath of spring must fail to reach that distant spot
Where early wild-flowers do not bloom to cheer my exile's lot.
See how the oranges still hang amid the clinging snow,
And shoots and buds, benumbed by cold, around reluctant grow!
At night your heart is with your home when you hear the wild goose cry.
And your sadness ever deepens as the smiling months go by.
Yet when you think of happy hours at Loyang in the past.
Grieve not that spring is late, but joy that spring is yours at last.