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 Chinese Lyrics
 
 Chinese Lyrics 
 
 FROM THE BOOK OF JADE 
 
 Translated from the French of 
 
 JUDITH GAUTIER 
 BY JAMES WHITALL 
 
 [Third Printing] 
 
 NEW YORK 
 B. W. HUEBSCH 
 
 MCMXXIII
 
 Copyright, 1918, by B. W. Huebsch 
 
 PRINTED IN U. S. A.
 
 3 G 
 
 Contents 
 
 PRELUDE, 9 
 MID-RIVER, 21 
 
 TO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN OF THE FLOWER 
 BOAT, 22 
 
 ON THE ROAD TO TCHI-LI, 2J 
 
 SONG ON THE RIVER, 25 
 
 INTOXICATION OF LOVE, 26 
 
 A DWELLING IN THE HEART, 27 
 
 THE BIRDS ARE SINGING AT DUSK, 28 
 
 THE CORMORANT, 29 
 
 THE SHORELESS SEA, 30 
 
 MOONLIGHT, 3! 
 
 THE WILD SWANS, 32 
 
 AT THE RIVER'S EDGE, 34 
 
 THE LEAF ON THE WATER, 35 
 
 THE GREAT RAT, 36 
 
 THE FORBIDDEN FLOWER, 37 
 
 VENGEANCE, 38 
 
 THE FISHERMAN, 39 
 
 BEFORE HER MIRROR, 40 
 
 THE PORCELAIN PAVILION, 4! 
 
 THE TRANQUIL RIVER, 42 
 
 THE WILLOW LEAF, 43 
 
 YOUTH, 44
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE SEVENTH MONTH, 45 
 THE AUTUMN WIND, 46 
 A POET SMILES, 48 
 THE FAN, 49 
 
 A YOUNG POET DREAMS OF HIS BELOVED WHO LIVES 
 
 ACROSS THE RIVER, 50 
 ON THE RIVER, 5 I 
 TO FORGET ONE'S THOUGHTS, 52 
 ON THE RIVER TCHOU, 53
 
 Prelude
 
 Prelude 
 
 (AFTER JUDITH GAUTIER) 
 
 IN China, the fame of a poet is not won as in other 
 countries ; more gradual in growth there, it is accord- 
 ingly truer and infinitely more lasting. And for a 
 poet to presume to judge his own verses worthy of 
 being printed, or to arrange a collection of them was 
 an unheard-of occurrence in that ancient empire, and 
 it rarely happens now, except under a foreign influ- 
 ence. 
 
 At a gathering of scholars each poet sings his verses 
 in turn; he has the scrupulous attention of his audi- 
 ence, and if one of the poems proves to be exceptional 
 his companions request the privilege of copying it. 
 Those who keep it in their note-books recite it again 
 at other similar gatherings, and allow it to be copied 
 afresh. Thus, in a select circle, the name of the 
 poet diffuses itself like an agreeable perfume. 
 
 Sometimes an independent author addresses him- 
 self directly to the people. He writes his verses on 
 the wall of a quarter-entrance, most often without 
 signing them. People stop and read them, and those 
 for whom they have a meaning comment upon them, 
 and discuss and explain them to those who are anxious 
 to understand. If a scholar passes and finds the poem 
 worth the trouble, he makes a copy of it which he 
 keeps for his friends, and eventually he puts it with 
 others similarly discovered. Poems kept in this man- 
 
 [9]
 
 ner are soon wafted from mouth to mouth, become 
 famous and in the end popular. It is then posterity 
 and a sort of plebiscite which determines a poet's 
 claim to distinction. 
 
 A century or more often passes before an Emperor 
 issues the command to a committee of scholars to in- 
 vestigate all the poems created during a certain pe- 
 riod of years, which have been perpetuated by fame, 
 in order to collect them into volumes. Thus a book 
 is formed like a bouquet of rare flowers, and in its 
 pages the poets fraternize good-naturedly, and their 
 verses complement and contrast with each other in 
 charming diversity. 
 
 It is true that if, during their lives, the authors 
 were able to foresee their fame, they never could be 
 sure of it, and only rarely were they present at their 
 triumph. In a few cases, however, poets have been 
 known to receive tributes of appreciation and almost 
 of adoration from their contemporaries, especially 
 when the enthusiasm of an Emperor advanced them 
 to high posts at Court and exhibited them to the 
 world in the limelight of special favour. 
 
 So it was in the case of the magnificent pleiade of 
 great minds that illumined the reign of Ming-Hoang 
 in the eighth century of our era, and which supplies 
 even today the models and the oracles of poetry, as if 
 they were its patron-saints. Yet even the works of 
 these poets were not published during their lives. 
 And now a few scattered sheets of thin paper or white 
 satin, decorated with delicate designs, are the only 
 
 [10]
 
 records of those priceless poems that have been pre- 
 served with such reverence that not a single one has 
 been lost. 
 
 Among the names that posterity has gathered 
 through the ages for the bouquet of immortality, 
 those of Li-Tai-Pe, Thou-Fou, Ouan-Ouey, Tchan- 
 Jo-Su, and Ouan-Tchan-Lin are the most notable. 
 Li-Tai-Pe and Thou-Fou are acclaimed the great- 
 est, without the Chinese daring, however, to decide 
 which surpassed the other. "When two eagles soar 
 into the heavens and are lost to view, which of them," 
 they say, "can be said to have flown nearest to Par- 
 adise?" 
 
 The poems of Li-Tai-Pe are cast in a brief and 
 original form, difficult rhythms are frequent, and his 
 style is coloured with rare and carefully chosen im- 
 ages, and rich in allusion, implication, and irony. 
 Like Omar Khayyam, he intoxicated himself pas- 
 sionately, extolled wine the only consoler, and threw 
 the veils of inebriation, like gold-spangled shrouds, 
 over the bitterness of this life and the dread of that 
 to come. And behind the screen of intoxication, 
 this poet concealed serious breaches of etiquette, at 
 which the courtiers often took offence, but the Em- 
 peror exercised towards him an untiring lenience. 
 Some of the Ministers even reproached him for 
 compromising the Imperial dignity, but to that 
 Ming-Hoang replied, "All that I do in behalf of a 
 poet of such genius can only bring me prominence
 
 in the eyes of superior men. I am not concerned 
 with the opinion of others." 
 
 One day, having caused Li-Tai-Pe to be sum- 
 moned so that he might ask him to celebrate a splen- 
 did flowering of peonies, on which he was gazing 
 with Tai-Tsun, his adored favourite, the poet pre- 
 sented himself quite benumbed with intoxication, 
 and the Emperor, with his own hand, stirred the po- 
 tion that was to disperse the fumes of the saki, in 
 order to cool it more quickly. 
 
 The Chinese say that Li-Tai-Pe died of the moon, 
 which is peopled, apparently, with the ideal figures 
 the poets have created, and where all the fiction of 
 their dreams is realized. One gorgeous night the 
 poet was supping on the Great River with his 
 friends; the atmosphere was unusually translucent, 
 and the water was so clear that it was practically 
 invisible. The moon shone at the bottom of the 
 abyss as well as in the heavens, and there were as 
 many stars beneath as above. Bending over the gun- 
 wale of the junk as if fascinated, Li-Ta'i-Pe gazed 
 steadfastly into the depths. "In unknown regions," 
 he said suddenly, "there is neither height nor depth. 
 The moon is calling me, and causes me to under- 
 stand that, to reach the world beyond, it matters 
 little whether one descends or ascends." Forth- 
 with a chorus of harmonious voices was heard, a 
 great whirlwind lashed the tranquil waters, and two 
 young Immortals bearing standards stood before the 
 poet, messengers from the Lord of the Skies, come 
 
 [12]
 
 to invite him to take his place in the regions above. 
 A dolphin appeared and Li-Tai-Pe laid himself 
 calmly on its back. Then, preceded by the celestial 
 company, he was carried beneath the waters towards 
 the moon, and disappeared forever. 
 
 Cynics would ask one to believe that the poet was 
 perhaps simply drowned, but who cares to believe 
 that? A temple has been raised to this subtle and 
 supercilious scholar, where eternal homage will be 
 paid to him who is called in China noble country 
 where temples are erected to poets The Supreme 
 Lord of Poetry. 
 
 Thou-Fou has admirers who not only declare him 
 to be the equal of Li-Tai-Pe but who even prefer 
 him to that poet. His poems, though less strange 
 and unexpected, are just as picturesque as those of 
 his great friend, whom he recognized as his master. 
 They are more easily translated, being freer from 
 affectation, and they are clearer, fuller of feeling 
 tenderness, of sympathy for a grief-stricken human- 
 ity. Less Chinese, perhaps, they are more universal, 
 more within our ken. 
 
 Thou-Fou held the office of Imperial Censor, 
 that post which is peculiar to China, so distinguished 
 and yet so hazardous, whose duties consisted of a 
 supervision of the conduct of the Sovereign, and if 
 need be, of regulating it. This was at the Court of 
 Tchane-Gane in that enchanted period which had be- 
 come a poet's paradise by the grace of that intense ad- 
 
 [13]
 
 mirer of beautiful poetry, Ming-Hoang-Ti. The 
 high-principled Censor, however, was not the man to 
 flatter his master; one of his reprimands proved too 
 serious for endurance and Thou-Fou fell into dis- 
 grace, was exiled from the Court and never consoled 
 himself. The poem bearing the title "Mid- Autumn" 
 is one of those in which he gives vent most poignantly 
 to his grief. In it a curious coincidence is noticeable. 
 At all times and in every nation, poets are found to 
 voice similar sentiments. Ten centuries before Vic- 
 tor Hugo, this Chinese exile reckoned the years by 
 means of Nature's manifestations: "Twice already," 
 he said, "have I seen the chrysanthemums bloom." 
 And during the third October of his exile, Hugo 
 said: "Pour la troisieme fois, je vois les pommes 
 
 mures" 
 
 A woman's name is rather rare among those poets 
 whose fame has been established by posterity. There 
 are a few, however, and that of Ly-y-Hane seems 
 to have been considered in the first rank. She lived 
 during the Song Dynasty, in the twelfth century of 
 our era. The Chinese admire Ly-y-Hane, not only 
 as a clever and graceful composer of verses, but as a 
 superior intellect and a true scholar, accustomed to 
 all the minutiae and intricacies of the art of poetry. 
 In fact, she makes light of them, and accomplishes 
 strange metres and singular innovations with such 
 freedom that one is forced to forgive and admire her 
 audacity.
 
 The incurable wound of her heart, bleeding in soli- 
 tude, is practically the only subject with which Ly- 
 y-Hane deals, but the isolation, the seclusion and the 
 impotence in the face of action, characteristics of the 
 Chinese woman, are all poignantly expressed in her 
 verses. As far as can be known, the love that devours 
 this Chinese Sappho is ignored by him who inspires 
 it; possibly she has never even seen him, and she 
 makes no effort to show herself or to attract him to 
 her. The fact of her being a woman, customs and 
 the conventions make it impossible. One might say 
 she was a flower become enamoured of a bird; with 
 neither voice nor wings, she can only diffuse her pas- 
 sion-scented soul as she prepares to die. 
 
 In her verses Ly-y-Hane always unites her grief 
 with the sphere in which she lives, her encircling 
 universe, or at least as much of it as she can see from 
 her window. The changing seasons are the only 
 events, the objects that adorn her home the only evi- 
 dences of a life consecrated to the expression of a 
 single sentiment. A detailed biography would 
 throw no more light on her existence than do her 
 poems, in which she reveals simultaneously her re- 
 markable talent and her overpowering mental agony. 
 She lived entombed with her suffering, hoping never 
 to be deprived of it or cured, and she named in ad- 
 vance the volume that posterity would perhaps collect 
 of all her scattered verses: "The Debris of My 
 Heart." 
 
 [15]
 
 In order to give an adequate idea of Chinese versi- 
 fication, of its complicated rules and infinite refine- 
 ments, a much longer study would be necessary. To 
 understand and admire a work of art there is happily 
 no need of being acquainted with its technicalities; 
 therefore a few words will be sufficient to indicate 
 the most interesting rules from our point of view. 
 Either the Chinese, as it is often said, have invented 
 and worked it all out, or else the mind of man hits 
 upon the same devices in different countries simul- 
 taneously. This much, at least, is true ; the principal 
 rules of Chinese versification are identical with ours, 
 and they date back forty centuries: as for instance, 
 the division of lines into an equal number of syllables ; 
 the caesura; the rhyme; and the division of verses 
 into four lines. In a quatrain, the two first and the 
 last lines rhyme ; the third does not rhyme. The fol- 
 lowing fragment is given as an example : 
 
 IN THE PALACE 
 Tsi tsi hoa chy pi y mene. 
 Hiei jen siang ping ly khiang hlene 
 Han tsing yo chouo khouan tchon sse. . . . 
 Ying ou tsien teou pou kan yene. 
 
 A charming and original effect, a quality possessed 
 only by Chinese poetry, results from the ideographic 
 nature of the characters; one gets a definite impres- 
 sion from the appearance of the writing, and an un- 
 expected vision of the whole poem. The flowers, the 
 forests, the streams, and the moonlight, all these pre-
 
 sent themselves before one has commenced to read. 
 For example, in the poem of Li-Tai-Pe, "Good For- 
 tune on the High-road," the effect at first glance is 
 of prancing horses, and before knowing what he will 
 say, one seems to see the poet riding haughtily among 
 the flowers. 
 
 Today in China, as of old, the words and music are 
 always united; the poems are not recited but sung, 
 and in most cases the singing is accompanied by the 
 Chinese lyre, the "Kine." But this sacred instrument 
 can only vibrate in the presence of burning incense 
 and before those who are mentally fitted to listen, for 
 its delicate strings break if their waves of melody 
 encounter unattuned ears. 
 
 Twelve centuries before Orpheus and fifteen be- 
 fore David and Homer, the Chinese poets were sing- 
 ing their verses to the music of the lyre, and they are 
 unique in that they are singing still, almost in the 
 same language and to the same melodies. 
 
 [17]
 
 Chinese Lyrics
 
 Mid-River 
 
 IN my boat rocked by the river, 
 gently rocked while the daylight lasts, 
 I row and I gaze at the mountains, 
 glassed in the water. 
 
 I have now no other love 
 
 but the love of wine, 
 
 and my cup full of wine is before me. 
 
 Once I had in my heart a thousand sorrows, 
 
 but now . . . 
 
 I look at the mountains, 
 
 glassed in the water. 
 
 Tchang-Tsi 
 
 [21]
 
 To the Most Beautiful Woman of the 
 Flower Boat 
 
 I HAVE sung songs to you 
 with my flute of ebony, 
 songs telling of my sadness, 
 but you did not hear. 
 
 I have written verses 
 
 praising your beauty, 
 
 but you have thrown the gorgeous sheets 
 
 that bore my poems 
 
 disdainfully into the water. 
 
 Then I gave you a huge sapphire, 
 a dark sapphire like the sky at night, 
 and for that sapphire you have shown me 
 the little pearls of your mouth. 
 
 Ouan-Tsi. 
 
 [22]
 
 On the Road to Tchi-Li 
 
 I SIT by the wayside on a fallen tree, 
 
 and gaze along the road 
 
 that stretches before me to Tchi-Li. 
 
 This morning 
 
 the blue satin of my shoes glistened like steel, 
 
 and one could see the black-embroidered traceries; 
 
 but now my shoes are covered with dust. 
 
 When I set out 
 
 the sun was laughing in the sky, 
 the butterflies hovered around me, 
 and I counted the white daisies, 
 scattered through the grass 
 like handfuls of pearls. 
 
 It is evening now, 
 
 and there are no daisies. 
 
 Swallows dart by swiftly at my feet; 
 
 crows are calling each other to rest, 
 
 and labourers are entering the villages near by, 
 
 with their plaits wrapped round their heads. 
 
 [23]
 
 But for me there are many miles to go ; 
 
 I will compose a poem, 
 
 as full of sadness as my lonely heart, 
 
 and with a rhythm so difficult 
 
 that the road to Tchi-Li will seem too short. 
 
 Tin-Tun-Ling.
 
 Song on the River 
 
 MY boat is of ebony; 
 
 the holes in my flute are golden. 
 
 As a plant takes out stains from silk, 
 so wine takes sadness from the heart. 
 
 When one has good wine, 
 
 a graceful boat, 
 
 and a maiden's love, 
 
 why envy the immortal gods? 
 
 Li-Tai-Pe. 
 
 [25]
 
 Intoxication of Love 
 
 THE petals of the water-lilies tremble 
 
 as the wind murmurs 
 
 through the Palace of the Waters. 
 
 The King of Lou 
 
 lounges idly on the terrace of Kou-Sou; 
 
 before him is Sy-Che; 
 
 she is dancing, 
 
 and her movements are rhythmic 
 
 and full of delicate grace. 
 
 Then she laughs, 
 
 sensuous in her weariness ; 
 
 she leans against the royal white jade bed, 
 
 and gazes towards the east. 
 
 Li-Tai-Pe. 
 
 [26]
 
 A Dwelling in the Heart 
 
 CRUEL flames laid waste the house where I was born; 
 I put to sea in my gilded ship 
 to lessen my despair. 
 
 I took my flute and played to the moon, 
 but she hid her face with a cloud 
 for my song was sad. 
 
 Disheartened I turned back to the mountain, 
 
 but I found no solace there ; 
 
 childhood joys seemed to vanish with my home. 
 
 I wished for death; 
 
 but then the moon seemed mirrored in the sea, 
 
 and past me sped a maiden in her bark. 
 
 Were it her wish, 
 
 I'd build another dwelling 
 
 in her heart. 
 
 Thou-Fou. 
 
 [27]
 
 The Birds Are Singing at Dusk 
 
 AT dusk a cool wind 
 
 blows the song of birds to a window 
 
 where a maiden is sitting. 
 
 She is embroidering a piece of silk 
 with bright flowers. 
 
 She lifts her head ; 
 her work falls from her hands 
 for her thoughts have flown to him 
 who is far away. 
 
 "It is easy for a bird to find its mate 
 
 among the branches, 
 
 but all the tears 
 
 that fall like the rain of heaven 
 
 from a maiden's eyes 
 
 will not recall her well-beloved." 
 
 She bends over her work once more: 
 :< I will weave a fragment of verse 
 among the flowers of his robe, 
 and perhaps its words will tell him to return." 
 
 Li-Tai-Pe. 
 
 [28]
 
 The Cormorant 
 
 THE cormorant meditates, 
 
 standing motionless and alone 
 
 at the river's edge ; 
 
 his round eye follows the flowing water. 
 
 If a passer-by comes too near, 
 
 he flaps away balancing his head 
 
 and waits in the thicket for the intruder to go, 
 
 wishing to gaze again 
 
 upon the undulations of the stream. 
 
 And at night 
 
 when the moon shines upon the waves, 
 
 the cormorant meditates, 
 
 standing with one foot in the water. 
 
 Thus a man whose heart is burning with passion 
 follows the undulations of a thought. 
 
 Su-Tong-Po. 
 
 [29]
 
 The Shoreless Sea 
 
 OH dragon, 
 
 you who rule the shoreless sea of death, 
 
 steal away my loved one 
 
 while, bending over her in passionate musing, 
 
 I drink in her breath , 
 
 bear her away on your ghostly ship, 
 
 and take me with her 
 
 so we may sail together always, 
 
 drunk with love. 
 
 Li-Hung-Chang. 
 1 9th Century. 
 
 [30]
 
 Moonlight 
 
 THE full moon rises out of the water; 
 the sea becomes a plate of silver. 
 
 On a boat friends drink cups of wine, 
 and they watch the little moonlit clouds 
 hover above the mountain. 
 
 Some say 
 
 the white-robed wives of the Emperor, 
 
 others 
 
 a flock of swans. 
 
 Li-Oey.
 
 The Wild Swans 
 
 BEFORE daybreak the breezes whisper 
 through the trellis at my window ; 
 they interrupt and carry off my dream, 
 and he of whom I dreamed 
 vanishes from me. 
 
 I climb upstairs 
 
 to look from the topmost window, 
 
 but with whom? . . . 
 
 I remember how I used to stir the fire 
 
 with my hairpin of jade 
 
 as I am doing now . . . 
 
 but the brasier holds nothing but ashes. 
 
 I turn to look at the mountain ; 
 
 there is a thick mist, 
 
 a dismal rain, 
 
 and I gaze down at the wind-dappled river, 
 
 the river that flows past me forever 
 
 without bearing away my sorrow. 
 
 I have kept the rain of my tears 
 on the crape of my tunic; 
 
 [32]
 
 with a gesture I fling these bitter drops 
 to the wild swans on the river, 
 that they may be my messengers. 
 
 Ly-y-Hane. 
 
 [33]
 
 At the River s Edge 
 
 AT the river's edge 
 
 maidens are bathing among the water-lilies; 
 
 they are hidden from the shore, 
 
 but their laughter can be heard, 
 
 and on the bank 
 
 their silken robes perfume the wind. 
 
 A youth on horseback passes near; 
 
 one of the maidens feels her heart beat faster, 
 
 and she blushes deeply. 
 
 Then she hides herself 
 
 among the clustered water-lilies. 
 
 Li-Tat-Pe. 
 
 [34]
 
 The Leaf on the Water 
 
 THE wind tears a leaf from the willow tree; 
 it falls lightly upon the water, 
 and the waves carry it away. 
 
 Time has gradually effaced a memory 
 
 from my heart, 
 
 and I watch the willow leaf drifting 
 
 on the waves ; 
 
 since I have forgotten her 
 
 whom I loved, 
 
 I dream the day through in sadness, 
 
 lying at the water's edge. 
 
 But the willow leaf floated back 
 
 under the tree, 
 
 and it seemed to me 
 
 that the memory could never be effaced 
 
 from my heart. 
 
 Ouan-Tsi. 
 
 [35]
 
 The Great Rat 
 
 OH cruel ravenous rat, 
 
 do not devour all my grain ! 
 
 For three long years 
 
 I have endured the outrage of your savage teeth, 
 
 and vainly sought to curb you 
 
 with my tears. 
 
 But now at last I go; 
 
 I shall flee your awful power ; 
 
 I shall build a house in distant lands, 
 
 in happy lands 
 
 where remorse lasts but a day. 
 
 Sao-Nan. 
 
 [36]
 
 The Forbidden Flower 
 
 MY boat rocks 
 
 beneath the autumn moon. 
 
 Alone 
 
 I drift on the Southern Lake, 
 
 plucking the white lotus flowers. 
 
 A desire consumes me ; 
 
 I would declare my passion for them, 
 
 but alas . . . 
 
 my boat glides on 
 
 at the mercy of the cunning waves, 
 
 and my heart is plunged in sadness. 
 
 Li-Tai-Pe. 
 
 [37]
 
 Vengeance 
 
 "AH, the cock crows 1" 
 
 "Not yet, beloved, for it is still night." 
 
 "Arise, arise! pull back the curtains; 
 
 search the heavens." 
 
 "Alas, the morning star has arisen." 
 
 "Ah ! it is the dawn ; 
 
 the hour has come, 
 
 but first take vengeance on him 
 
 who separates us; 
 
 seize your bow and kill the cock." 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 [38]
 
 The Fisherman 
 
 THE earth has drunk the snow, 
 
 and now the plum trees are blossoming once more. 
 
 The willow leaves are like new gold; 
 the lake is molten silver. 
 
 It is the hour 
 
 when sulphur-laden butterflies 
 
 rest their velvet heads upon the flowers. 
 
 A fisherman casts forth his nets 
 
 from a motionless boat, 
 
 and the surface of the lake is broken. 
 
 His thoughts are at home with her 
 to whom he will return with food, 
 like a swallow to its mate. 
 
 Li-Tai-Pe. 
 
 [39]
 
 Before Her Mirror 
 
 SITTING before her mirror, 
 
 she gazes at the floor 
 
 where the bamboo curtain breaks the moonlight 
 
 into a thousand bits of jade. 
 
 Instead of combing her hair 
 
 she raises the curtain, 
 
 and in the room it is as though a woman, 
 
 robed in white silk, 
 
 had let fall her mantle. 
 
 Tchan-Jo-Su. 
 
 [40]
 
 The Porcelain Pavilion 
 
 OUT in the artificial lake 
 
 there is a pavilion of green and white porcelain ; 
 
 it is reached by a bridge of jade, 
 
 arched like the back of a tiger. 
 
 In the pavilion friends in bright-coloured robes 
 are drinking cups of cool wine ; 
 they chatter and scribble verses, 
 their sleeves tucked up, 
 their hats pushed back. 
 
 In the water 
 
 where the reflected bridge 
 
 seems a crescent of jade, 
 
 the friends in bright-coloured robes 
 
 are drinking heads downward 
 
 in a porcelain pavilion. 
 
 Li-Tai-Pe.
 
 The Tranquil River 
 
 MEN may look at the moon all their lives ; 
 
 it crosses the sky 
 
 as a tranquil river follows its course, 
 
 never faltering or lingering behind, 
 
 but men's thoughts are ephemeral 
 
 and wandering. 
 
 Tchan-Jo-Su. 
 
 [42]
 
 The Willow Leaf 
 
 THE maiden who gazes dreamily from her window 
 
 resting on her elbows, 
 
 I do not love her for her splendid palace 
 
 on the banks of the Yellow River; 
 
 I love her 
 
 because she has dropped a little willow leaf 
 
 into the water. 
 
 I do not love the breeze from the east 
 
 because it brings me 
 
 the scent of the blossoming peach trees 
 
 that whiten the Oriental Mountain ; 
 
 I love it 
 
 because it has blown the little willow leaf 
 
 close to my boat. 
 
 And the little willow leaf, 
 
 I do not love it for reminding me 
 
 of the tender spring 
 
 that has just flowered again ; 
 
 I love it 
 
 because the maiden has written a name on it 
 
 with the point of her embroidery needle, 
 
 and because that name is mine. 
 
 Tchan-Tiou-Lin. 
 
 [43]
 
 Youth 
 
 THE care-free youth 
 
 who lives on the road of the Imperial Tombs, 
 
 near the Gold Market of the East, 
 
 sets out from his dwelling 
 
 into the fresh spring wind. 
 
 The step of his white horse 
 
 saddled in silver 
 
 is graceful and full of rhythm. 
 
 There is a whirlwind of petals underfoot, 
 
 for the fallen blossoms 
 
 form a thick carpet everywhere. 
 
 Now he slackens his pace, 
 
 perplexed . . . 
 
 a laugh greets him from a nearby thicket, 
 
 musical and clear; 
 
 he is no longer perplexed. 
 
 Li-Ta'i-Pe. 
 
 [44]
 
 Thoughts on the Seventh Month 
 
 I DREAM among the flowers 
 
 of my garden, 
 
 sipping wine clear as jade. 
 
 The wind caresses my cheeks, 
 
 it cools the scorching air; 
 
 but how glad I shall be of my cloak 
 
 when winter comes again. 
 
 In the summer of her beauty, 
 
 a woman is like the wind in August; 
 
 she sweetens our lives. 
 
 But when the white silk of age 
 
 covers her head, 
 
 we avoid her 
 
 like the wind in winter. 
 
 Li-Ta'i-Pe.
 
 The Autumn Wind 
 
 THE autumn wind rises, 
 white clouds are flying before it, 
 yellow leaves are torn from the trees 
 by the river. 
 
 Already the wild geese are winging their way 
 
 towards the south, 
 
 the rose is sweet no longer, 
 
 and petals are falling 
 
 from the lotus flowers. 
 
 I must see her whom I love 
 
 and can never forget; 
 
 I jump into my boat 
 
 to cross the river to the pavilion 
 
 where she dwells. 
 
 The stream is swift 
 
 and the waters, 
 
 darkened by the wind, 
 
 flow with a sound like rustling silk; 
 
 how far away seems the other shore, 
 
 as far away as ever! 
 
 [46]
 
 To give me courage 
 I sing as I row, 
 but my songs are sad 
 and make my toil heavier. 
 
 My heart is young and ardent; 
 
 it flies before me 
 
 and pitilessly leaves me. 
 
 Have the winds of so many autumns 
 
 broken my strength? 
 
 is it the image of an old man 
 
 that trembles up at me 
 
 from the water? 
 
 The Emperor Ou-Ty. 
 Han Dynasty, 140 B. C. 
 
 [47]
 
 A Poet Smiles 
 
 THE little lake is as still and clear 
 as a cup full of water. 
 
 On the shore 
 
 the bamboos are like huts, 
 
 roofed by the green foliage of the trees, 
 
 and the tall pointed rocks 
 
 rising out of the flowers 
 
 are like pagodas. 
 
 I let my boat drift gently, 
 and I smile at Nature 
 imitating Man. 
 
 Ouan-Tsi. 
 
 [48]
 
 The Fan 
 
 THE bride is sitting in the Perfumed Chamber 
 to which the bridegroom came for the first time 
 the night before. 
 
 She holds up her fan; 
 
 she reads the writing on it: 
 
 "when the air is Stirling 
 
 and no wind blows, 
 
 I am sought for, beloved for my freshness; 
 
 but when the wind stirs 
 
 and the air is cold, 
 
 I am disdained 
 
 and forgotten." 
 
 As she reads these words 
 
 the young wife dreams of her husband; 
 
 sad thoughts assail her: 
 
 "his heart is burning now 
 
 with youthful passion, 
 
 he comes here to refresh his heart; 
 
 but when time chills it, 
 
 perhaps I too will be disdained 
 
 and forgotten." 
 
 Tchan-Jo-Su. 
 
 [49]
 
 A Young Poet Dreams of His Beloved 
 Who Lives Across the River 
 
 THE moon floats to the bosom of the sky 
 
 and rests there like a lover; 
 
 the evening wind passes over the lake, 
 
 touches and passes, 
 
 kissing the happy shivering waters. 
 
 How serene the joy, 
 
 when things that are made for each other 
 
 meet and are joined ; 
 
 but ah, 
 
 how rarely they meet and are joined, 
 
 the things that are made for each other. 
 
 Sao-Nan. 
 
 [50]
 
 On the River 
 
 A SINGLE gray cloud is floating 
 
 in the sky, 
 
 and my boat is alone 
 
 on the river. 
 
 Now the moon is climbing the heavens, 
 and sinking into the water ; 
 the cloud is gray no longer 
 and I am happier in my boat 
 alone on the river. 
 
 Tchan-Jo-Su.
 
 To Forget Ones Thoughts 
 
 LET us rejoice together, 
 
 and fill our porcelain goblets again 
 
 with cool wine ; 
 
 though the joyous spring is. waning now, 
 
 it will return. 
 
 Let us drink while we are thirsty, 
 and perhaps we shall forget 
 we are at the winter of our lives 
 and the flowers are fading. 
 
 Ouan-Oui. 
 
 [52]
 
 On the River Tchou 
 
 MY boat glides swiftly 
 
 beneath the wide cloud-ridden sky, 
 
 and as I look into the river 
 
 I can see the clouds drift by the moon ; 
 
 my boat seems floating 
 
 on the sky. 
 
 And thus I dream 
 
 my beloved is mirrored 
 
 on my heart. 
 
 Thou-Fou. 
 
 [53]
 
 
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