Part 12

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The days go by, and once again, Among the shadows of his pain, He lingers at the well-known place That holds the memory of her face.

But from the clouds of earth that lie Beneath the foot of tall Ma-wei No signs of her dim form appear, Only the place of death is here.

Statesman's and monarch's eyes have met, And royal robes with tears are wet; Then eastward flies the frantic steed As on to the Red Wall they speed.

Home

There is the pool, the flowers as of old, There the hibiscus at the gates of gold, And there the willows round the palace rise. In the hibiscus flower he sees her face, Her eyebrows in the willow he can trace, And silken pansies thrill him with her eyes.

How in this presence should his tears not come, In spring amid the bloom of peach and plum, In autumn rains when the wut`ung leaves must fall? South of the western palace many trees Shower their dead leaves upon the terraces, And not a hand to stir their crimson pall.

Ye minstrels of the Garden of the Pear,* Grief with the touch of age has blanched your hair. Ye guardians of the Pepper Chamber,** now No longer young to him, the firefly flits Through the black hall where, lost to love, he sits, Folding the veil of sorrows round his brow,

Alone, and one by one the lanterns die, Sleep with the lily hands has passed him by, Slowly the watches of the night are gone, For now, alas! the nights are all too long, And shine the stars, a silver, mocking throng, As though the dawn were dead or slumbered on.

Cold settles on the painted duck and drake, The frost a ghostly tapestry doth make, Chill the kingfisher's quilt with none to share. Parted by life and death; the ebb and flow Of night and day over his spirit go; He hunts her face in dreams, and finds despair.

-- * The Pear Garden was a college of music founded by Ming Huang for the purpose of training the youth of both sexes.

** The women's part of the palace. --

Spirit-Land

A priest of Tao, one of the Hung-tu school, Was able by his magic to compel The spirits of the dead. So to relieve The sorrows of his king, the man of Tao Receives an urgent summons. Borne aloft Upon the clouds, on ether charioted, He flies with speed of lightning. High to heaven, Low down to earth, he, seeking everywhere, Floats on the far empyrean, and below The yellow springs; but nowhere in great space Can he find aught of her. At length he hears An old-world tale: an Island of the Blest* -- So runs the legend -- in mid-ocean lies In realms of blue vacuity, too faint To be described; there gaily coloured towers Rise up like rainbow clouds, and many gentle And beautiful Immortals pass their days In peace. Among them there is one whose name Sounds upon lips as Eternal. By the bloom Of her white skin and flower-like face he knows That this is she. Knocking at the jade door At the western gate of the golden house, he bids A fair maid breathe his name to one more fair Than all. She, hearing of this embassy Sent by the Son of Heaven, starts from her dreams Among the tapestry curtains. Gathering Her robes around her, letting the pillow fall, She, risen in haste, begins to deck herself With pearls and gems. Her cloud-like hair, dishevelled, Betrays the nearness of her sleep. And with the droop Of her flowery plumes in disarray, she floats Light through the hall. The sleeves of her divine Raiment the breezes fill. As once again To the Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket air She seems to dance, her face is fixed and calm, Though many tear-drops on an almond bough Fall, and recall the rains of spring. Subdued Her wild emotions and restrained her grief, She tenders thanks unto his Majesty, Saying how since they parted she has missed His form and voice; how, though their love had reached Too soon its earthly limit, yet among The blest a multitude of mellow noons Remain ungathered. Turning now, she leans Toward the land of the living, and in vain Would find the Imperial city, lost in the dust And haze. Then raising from their lacquered gloom Old keepsakes, tokens of undying love, A golden hair-pin, an enamel brooch, She bids him bear them to her lord. One-half The hair-pin still she keeps, one-half the brooch, Breaking with her dim hands the yellow gold, Sundering the enamel. "Tell my lord," She murmured, "to be firm of heart as this Gold and enamel; then, in heaven or earth, Below, we twain may meet once more." At parting She gave a thousand messages of love, Among the rest recalled a mutual pledge, How on the seventh day of the seventh moon, Within the Hall of Immortality At midnight, whispering, when none were near, Low in her ear, he breathed, "I swear that we, Like to the one-winged birds, will ever fly, Or grow united as the tree whose boughs Are interwoven. Heaven and earth shall fall, Long lasting as they are. But this great wrong Shall stretch from end to end the universe, And shine beyond the ruin of the stars."

-- * The fabled Island of P`eng-lai. --

The River and the Leaf

Into the night the sounds of luting flow; The west wind stirs amid the root-crop blue; While envious fireflies spoil the twinkling dew, And early wild-geese stem the dark Kin-ho.

Now great trees tell their secrets to the sky, And hill on hill looms in the moon-clear night. I watch one leaf upon the river light, And in a dream go drifting down the Hwai.

Lake Shang

Oh! she is like a picture in the spring, This lake of Shang, with the wild hills gathering Into a winding garden at the base Of stormless waters; pines, deep blue, enlace The lessening slopes, and broken moonlight gleams Across the waves like pearls we thread in dreams. Like a woof of jasper strands the corn unfolds, Field upon field beyond the quiet wolds; The late-blown rush flaunts in the dusk serene Her netted sash and slender skirt of green. Sadly I turn my prow toward the shore, The dream behind me and the world before. O Lake of Shang, his feet may wander far Whose soul thou holdest mirrored as a star.

The Ruined Home

Who was the far-off founder of the house, With its red gates abutting to the road? -- A palace, though its outer wings are shorn, And domes of glittering tiles. The wall without Has tottered into ruin, yet remain The straggling fragments of some seven courts, The wreck of seven fortunes: roof and eaves Still hang together. From this chamber cool The dense blue smoke arose. Nor heat nor cold Now dwells therein. A tall pavilion stands Empty beside the empty rooms that face The pine-browed southern hills. Long purple vines Frame the verandahs. Mount the sunken step Of the red, joyous threshold, and shake down The peach and cherry branches. Yonder group Of scarlet peonies hath ringed about A lordly fellow with ten witnesses Of his official rank. The taint of meat Lingers around the kitchen, and a trace Of vanished hoards the treasury retains.

. . . . .

Who can lay hold upon my words? Give heed And commune with thyself! How poor and mean Is the last state of wretchedness, when cold And famine thunder at the gates, and none But pale endurance on the threshold stands With helpless hands and hollow eyes, the dumb Beholder of calamity. O thou That would protect the land a thousand years, Behold they are not that herein once bloomed And perished; but the garden breathes of them, And all the flowers are fragrant for their sakes. Salute the garden that salutes the dead!

A Palace Story

A network handkerchief contains no tear. 'Tis dawn at court ere wine and music sate. The rich red crops no aftermath await. Rest on a screen, and you will fall, I fear.

Peaceful Old Age

Chuang Tzu said: "Tao* gives me this toil in manhood, this repose in old age, this rest in death."