A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems Part 6

In the north-west there is a high house, Its top level with the floating clouds.

Embroidered curtains thinly screen its windows, Its storied tower is built on three steps.

From above there comes a noise of playing and singing, The tune sounding, oh! how sad!

Who can it be, playing so sad a tune?

Surely it must be Ch'i Liang's[14] wife.

The tranquil "D" follows the wind's rising, The middle lay lingers indecisive.

To each note, two or three sobs, Her high will conquered by overwhelming grief.

She does not regret that she is left so sad, But minds that so few can understand her song.

She wants to become those two wild geese That with beating wings rise high aloft.

[14] Who had no father, no husband, and no children.

(6)

Crossing the river I pluck hibiscus-flowers: In the orchid-swamps are many fragrant herbs.

I gather them, but who shall I send them to?

My love is living in lands far away.

I turn and look towards my own country: The long road stretches on for ever.

The same heart, yet a different dwelling: Always fretting, till we are grown old!

(7)

A bright moon illumines the night-prospect: The house-cricket chirrups on the eastern wall.

The Handle of the Pole-star points to the Beginning of Winter.

The host of stars is scattered over the sky.

The white dew wets the moor-gra.s.ses,-- With sudden swiftness the times and seasons change.

The autumn cicada sings among the trees, The swallows, alas, whither are they gone?

Once I had a same-house friend, He took flight and rose high away.

He did not remember how once we went hand in hand, But left me like footsteps behind one in the dust.

In the South is the Winnowing-fan and the Pole-star in the North, And a Herd-boy[15] whose ox has never borne the yoke.

A friend who is not firm as a great rock Is of no profit and idly bears the name.

[15] Name of a star. The Herd-boy, who is only figuratively speaking a herd-boy, is like the friend who is no real friend.

(8)

In the courtyard there grows a strange tree, Its green leaves ooze with a fragrant moisture.

Holding the branch I cut a flower from the tree, Meaning to send it away to the person I love.

Its sweet smell fills my sleeves and lap.

The road is long, how shall I get it there?

Such a thing is not fine enough to send: But it may remind him of the time that has past since he left.[16]

[16] _I.e._ (supposing he went away in the autumn), remind him that spring has come.

(9)

Far away twinkles the Herd-boy star; Brightly s.h.i.+nes the Lady of the Han River.

Slender, slender she plies her white fingers.

Click, click go the wheels of her spinning-loom.

At the end of the day she has not finished her task; Her bitter tears fall like streaming rain.

The Han River runs shallow and clear; Set between them, how short a s.p.a.ce!

But the river water will not let them pa.s.s, Gazing at each other but never able to speak.

(10)

Turning my chariot I yoke my horses and go.

On and on down the long roads The autumn winds shake the hundred gra.s.ses.

On every side, how desolate and bare!

The things I meet are all new things, Their strangeness hastens the coming of old age.

Prosperity and decay each have their season.

Success is bitter when it is slow in coming.

Man's life is not metal or stone, He cannot far prolong the days of his fate.

Suddenly he follows in the way of things that change.

Fame is the only treasure that endures.

(11)

The Eastern Castle stands tall and high; Far and wide stretch the towers that guard it.

The whirling wind uprises and shakes the earth; The autumn gra.s.ses grow thick and green.

The four seasons alternate without pause, The year's end hurries swiftly on.

The Bird of the Morning Wind is stricken with sorrow; The frail cicada suffers and is hard pressed.

Free and clear, let us loosen the bonds of our hearts.

Why should we go on always restraining and binding?

In Yen and Chao are many fair ladies, Beautiful people with faces like jade.

Their clothes are made all of silk gauze.

They stand at the door practising tranquil lays.

The echo of their singing, how sad it sounds!

By the pitch of the song one knows the stops have been tightened.

To ease their minds they arrange their shawls and belts; Lowering their song, a little while they pause.

"I should like to be those two flying swallows Who are carrying clay to nest in the eaves of your house."

(12)

I drive my chariot up to the Eastern Gate; From afar I see the graveyard north of the Wall.

The white aspens how they murmur, murmur; Pines and cypresses flank the broad paths.

Beneath lie men who died long ago; Black, black is the long night that holds them.

Deep down beneath the Yellow Springs, Thousands of years they lie without waking.

In infinite succession light and darkness s.h.i.+ft, And years vanish like the morning dew.

Man's life is like a sojourning, His longevity lacks the firmness of stone and metal.

For ever it has been that mourners in their turn were mourned, Saint and Sage,--all alike are trapped.

Seeking by food to obtain Immortality Many have been the dupe of strange drugs.

Better far to drink good wine And clothe our bodies in robes of satin and silk.

(13) CONTINUATION OF (12)