We were two green rushes by opposing banks,
And the small stream ran between.
Not till the water beat us down
Could we be brought together,
Not till the winter came
Could we be mingled in a frosty sleep,
Locked down and close.
From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century).

SONG WRITER PAID WITH AIR

I sit on a white wood box
Smeared with the black name
Of a seller of white sugar.
The little brown table is so dirty
That if I had food
I do not think I could eat.
How can I promise violets drunken in wine
For your amusement,
How can I powder your blue cotton dress
With splinters of emerald,
How can I sing you songs of the amber pear,
Or pour for the finger-tips of your white fingers
Mingled scents in a rose agate bowl?
From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century).

THE BAD ROAD

I have seen a pathway shaded by green great trees,
A road bordered by thickets light with flowers.
My eyes have entered in under the green shadow,
And made a cool journey far along the road.
But I shall not take the road,
Because it does not lead to her house.
When she was born
They shut her little feet in iron boxes,
So that my beloved never walks the roads.
When she was born
They shut her heart in a box of iron,
So that my beloved shall never love me.
From the Chinese.

THE WESTERN WINDOW

At the head of a thousand roaring warriors,
With the sound of gongs,
My husband has departed
Following glory.
At first I was overjoyed
To have a young girl's liberty.
Now I look at the yellowing willow-leaves;
They were green the day he left.
I wonder if he also was glad?
From the Chinese of Wang Ch'ang Ling (eighth century).

IN LUKEWARM WEATHER

The women who were girls a long time ago
Are sitting between the flower bushes
And speaking softly together:
"They pretend that we are old and have white hair;
They say also that our faces
Are not like the spring moons.
"Perhaps it is a lie;
We cannot see ourselves.
"Who will tell us for certain
That winter is not at the other side of the mirror,
Obscuring our delights
And covering our hair with frost?"
From the Chinese of Wang Ch'ang Ling (eighth century).

WRITTEN ON WHITE FROST

The white frost covers all the arbute-trees,
Like powder on the faces of women.
Looking from window consider
That a man without women is like a flower
Naked without its leaves.
To drive away my bitterness
I write this thought with my narrowed breath
On the white frost.
From the Chinese of Wang Chi (sixth and seventh centuries).

A FLUTE OF MARVEL

Under the leaves and cool flowers
The wind brought me the sound of a flute
From far away.
I cut a branch of willow
And answered with a lazy song.
Even at night, when all slept,
The birds were listening to a conversation
In their own language.
From the Chinese of Li Po (705-763).

THE WILLOW-LEAF

I am in love with a child dreaming at the window.
Not for her elaborate house
On the banks of Yellow River;
But for a willow-leaf she has let fall
Into the water.
I am in love with the east breeze.
Not that he brings the scent of the flowering of peaches
White on Eastern Hill;
But that he has drifted the willow-leaf
Against my boat.
I am in love with the willow-leaf.
Not that he speaks of green spring
Coming to us again;
But that the dreaming girl
Pricked there a name with her embroidery needle,
And the name is mine.
From the Chinese of Chang Chiu Ling (675-740).

A POET LOOKS AT THE MOON

I hear a woman singing in my garden,
But I look at the moon in spite of her.
I have no thought of trying to find the singer
Singing in my garden;
I am looking at the moon.
And I think the moon is honouring me
With a long silver look.
I blink
As bats fly black across the ray;
But when I raise my head the silver look
Is still upon me.
The moon delights to make eyes of poets her mirror,
And poets are many as dragon scales
On the moonlit sea.
From the Chinese of Chang Jo Hsu.

WE TWO IN A PARK AT NIGHT

We have walked over the high grass under the wet trees
To the gravel path beside the lake, we two.
A noise of light-stepping shadows follows now
From the dark green mist in which we waded.
Six geese drop one by one into the shivering lake;
They say "Peeng" and then after a long time, "Peeng,"
Swimming out softly to the moon.
Three of the balancing dancing geese are dim and black,
And three are white and clear because of the moon;
In what explanatory dawn will our souls
Be seen to be the same?
From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century).

THE JADE STAIRCASE

The jade staircase is bright with dew.
Slowly, this long night, the queen climbs,
Letting her gauze stockings and her elaborate robe
Drag in the shining water.
Dazed with the light,
She lowers the crystal blind
Before the door of the pavilion.
It leaps down like a waterfall in sunlight.
While the tiny clashing dies down,
Sad and long dreaming,
She watches between the fragments of jade light
The shining of the autumn moon.
From the Chinese of Li Po (705-762).

THE MORNING SHOWER

The young lady shows like a thing of light
In the shadowy deeps of a fair window
Grown round with flowers.
She is naked and leans forward, and her flesh like frost
Gathers the light beyond the stone brim.
Only the hair made ready for the day
Suggests the charm of modern clothing.
Her blond eyebrows are the shape of very young moons.
The shower's bright water overflows
In a pure rain.
She lifts one arm into an urgent line,
Cooling her rose fingers
On the grey metal of the spray.
If I could choose my service, I would be the shower
Dashing over her in the sunlight.
From the Chinese of J.S. Ling (1901).

A VIRTUOUS WIFE

One moment I place your two bright pearls against my robe,
And the red silk mirrors a rose in each.
Why did I not meet you before I married?
See, there are two tears quivering at my lids;
I am giving back your pearls.
From the Chinese of Chang Chi (770-850).

WRITTEN ON A WALL IN SPRING

It rained last night,
But fair weather has come back
This morning.
The green clusters of the palm-trees
Open and begin to throw shadows.
But sorrow drifts slowly down about me.
I come and go in my room,
Heart-heavy with memories.
The neighbour green casts shadows of green
On my blind;
The moss, soaked in dew,
Takes the least print
Like delicate velvet.
I see again a gauze tunic of oranged rose
With shadowy underclothes of grenade red.
How things still live again.
I go and sit by the day balustrade
And do nothing
Except count the plains
And the mountains
And the valleys
And the rivers
That separate from my Spring.
From the Chinese (early nineteenth century).

A POET THINKS

The rain is due to fall,
The wind blows softly.
The branches of the cinnamon are moving,
The begonias stir on the green mounds.
Bright are the flying leaves,
The falling flowers are many.
The wind lifted the dry dust,
And he is lifting the wet dust;
Here and there the wind moves everything
He passes under light gauze
And touches me.
I am alone with the beating of my heart.
There are leagues of sky,
And the water is flowing very fast.
Why do the birds let their feathers
Fall among the clouds?
I would have them carry my letters,
But the sky is long.
The stream flows east
And not one wave comes back with news.
The scented magnolias are shining still,
But always a few are falling.
I close his box on my guitar of jasper
And lay aside my jade flute.
I am alone with the beating of my heart.
Stay with me to-night,
Old songs.
From the Chinese of Liu Chi (1311-1375).

IN THE COLD NIGHT

Reading in my book this cold night,
I have forgotten to go to sleep.
The perfumes have died on the gilded bed-cover;
The last smoke must have left the hearth
When I was not looking.
My beautiful friend snatches away the lamp.
Do you know what the time is?
From the Chinese of Yuan Mei (1715-1797).