Leaves in the cool autumn rustle like scattered rain; cold sounds whisper through the empty hall, as though it were shrouded in clear frost. Yellow chrysanthemums will greet the west wind as promised, yet the wandering traveler has already grown white hair. My verse sounds like autumn insects, more plaintive as autumn deepens; my sleep resembles that of a cold magpie, repeatedly startled awake at night. When can I take the mountain road through Shiling Pass and see my homeland's mountains and rivers at a glance, briefly brightening my dim eyes?

虚堂: an empty, silent hall. 淅淅: the faint, scattered sounds of wind, rain, falling leaves, and the like. 黄华: chrysanthemums; 华 is used for “花” (“flower”). 远客: a person wandering far from home, referring to the author himself.

候虫: insects whose calls mark the seasons, such as crickets. 寒鹊: magpies on a cold night, often taking flight when startled. 石岭关: Shiling Pass, in present-day Shanxi, a pass on the poet’s route home.

家山: one’s native place. 眼暂明: the sight of home briefly lifts the spirits, emphasizing the comfort of returning.

Reading guide: This seven-character regulated poem by Yuan Haowen expresses homesickness on an autumn night away from home. Fallen leaves, yellow chrysanthemums, autumn insects, and cold magpies appear in sequence, but the poem does more than list autumn things: it moves from bodily aging and troubled sleep toward a desire to return home.

The second couplet sets the chrysanthemum against the distant traveler: flowers keep their seasonal appointment, while a wandering person grows old before his time. The word “先,” meaning “before,” distinguishes nature’s cycles from the wearing away of a human life.

Chanting like insects and dreams startled like magpies carry the desolation of sound into the inner world. At the end, recognizable roads through mountain passes suddenly appear, giving sorrow a direction; “暂” (“briefly”) also shows that this clarity remains only a moment hoped for.