  Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junk And tatterdemalion sampan glide, Sails of brown and black and yellow swinging. Down the Yang-tse bat-wing junks Fish-eyed and gaudy take the tide, Forth to the sea in sloth they ride, The coolies singing. Off in the field the peasant toils And along the canal the low tows slip, Fruit of the red persimmon piled upon them. Off in the field the peasant toils— With lip and brow the dull years strip Bare of the dreams of life, whose grip Has grimly drawn them. High on the hill the yamÊn rests And the temple beside it sleeps in sun, Far in the distance faints the city dreary. High on the hill the yamÊn rests, And dun dead shadows o'er it run: This is the land where Time begun And now grows weary. |
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