The crescent moon hangs on tree-tips;
八月五日夜凤凰亭纳凉
In dried pool hidden water drips.
新月挂林梢，
On painted eaves I see now and then sparse stars fall,
暗水鸣枯沼。
Here and there a few dots of fireflies small.
时见疏星落画檐，
I’m not much sick for native hill,
几点流萤小。
But homesickness haunts me still.
归意已无多，
I’ll write new songs for gatherers of lotus seed,
故作连环绕。
But find on boundless water mist-veiled reed.
欲寄新声问采菱，
水阔烟波渺。