The Tomb of Yue Fei
by Zhao Meng Fu

On Yue's tomb the grass grows luxuriant,
The autumn sun shines bleakly on the sentinel stone beasts.
In the exiled Southern capitol the sovereign and staff trifle with the country,
on the Central Plains elders seek his banners and flags.
Why moan for the great man, already gone?
Half of all beneath heaven will not endure.
Don't sing a melody to West Lake,
The hills, their colors refracted in water, cannot bear the grief.