Dusk by Tom Sharp

Farmers have have closed their wicker gates; cattle and sheep are lying in their pens. The sky is clear, the moon rises, a wind blows the poplars, and I’m far from home. A spring flows slowly down a stone wall. Dew begins to drop from the grasses. I sit under a bright lamp, my head so white that there’s no need for flowers to bloom.

日暮 by 杜甫 (Du Fu)

牛羊下来久，各己闭柴门。风月自清夜，江山非故园。石泉流暗壁，草露滴秋根。头白灯明里，何须花烬繁。