长安一片月,万户捣衣声。
秋风吹不尽,总是玉关情。
何日平胡虏,良人罢远征。
A slip of the moon hangs over the capital;
Ten thousand washing-mallets are pounding;
And the autumn wind is blowing my heart
For ever and ever toward the Jade Pass....
Oh, when will the Tartar troops be conquered,
And my husband come back from the long campaign!
Folk-song-styled-verse
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