Part 8

The old Imperial Park--the ruined Terrace--the young willows. The water-chestnut pickers are singing, a simple song unaccompanied by instruments--but joy is unbearable. For now the moon over the Western River is alone. The time is past when she gazed upon the concubines in the Palace of the King of Wu.

THEME OF THE REST-HOUSE ON THE CLEAR WAN RIVER

BY LI T'AI-PO

I love the beauty of the Wan River. One can see its clear heart shining a hundred feet deep. In what way does it not equal the river Hsin An? For a thousand times eight feet one can see its bright bed, The white sand keeps the colour of the moon. The dark green bamboos accentuate the Autumn sounds. Really one cannot help laughing to think that, until now, the rapid current celebrated by Yen Has usurped all the fame.

DRINKING SONG

BY LI T'AI-PO

Do you not see the waters of the Yellow River coming down from Heaven? They rush with incredible speed to the sea, and they never turn and come back again. Do you not see, in the clear mirror of the Guest Hall, the miserable white hair on my head? At dawn it is like shining thread, but at sunset it is snow. In this life, to be perfectly happy, one must drain one's pleasures; The golden wine-cup must not stand empty opposite the moon. Heaven put us here, we must use what we have. Scatter a thousand ounces of silver and you are but where you were. Boil the sheep, Kill the ox, Be merry. We should drink three hundred cups at once. Mr. Wise Gentleman Ts'en, And you, Mr. Scholar Tan Ch'iu, Drink, you must not stop. I will sing one of my poems for you, Please lean over and listen: "Bells! Drums! Delicacies Worth their weight in jade-- These things Are of the slightest value. I only want to be drunk For ages and never wake. The sages and worthies of old times Have left not a sound, Only those who drank Have achieved lasting fame. The King of Ch'ên, long ago, caroused In the Hall of Peaceful Content. They drank wine paid At a full ten thousand a gallon; They surpassed themselves in mirth, And the telling of obscene stories. How can a host say He has very little money. It is absolutely imperative That he buy wine for his friends. Horses of five colours, dappled flower horses, Fur coats costing A thousand ounces of silver-- He sends his son to exchange All these for delectable wine, So that you and I together May drown our ancient grief."

ANSWER TO AN AFFECTIONATE INVITATION FROM TS'UI FIFTEEN

BY LI T'AI-PO

You have the "bird's foot-print" characters. You suggest that we drink together at the Lute Stream. The characters you wrote are in the centre of a foot of pure white silk, They are like exquisite clouds dropped from Heaven. Having finished reading, I smile at the empty air, I feel as though my friend were before me Reciting verses for a long time. The characters are not faded. I shall keep them in my sleeve, and they should last three years.

PARROT ISLAND

BY LI T'AI-PO

The parrots come, they cross the river waters of Wu. The island in the river is called Parrot Island. The parrots are flying West to the Dragon Mountain. There are sweet grasses on the island, and how green, green, are its trees!

The mists part and one can see the leaves of the spear-orchid, and its scent is warm on the wind; The water is embroidered and shot with the reflections of the peach-tree blossoms growing on both banks. Now indeed does the departing official realize the full meaning of his banishment. The long island--the solitary moon--facing each other in the brightness.

THE HONOURABLE LADY CHAO

BY LI T'AI-PO

Moon over the houses of Han, over the site of Ch'in. It flows as water--its brightness shone on Ming Fei, the "Bright Concubine," Who took the road to the Jade Pass. She went to the edge of Heaven, but she did not return; She gave up the moon of Han, she departed from the Eastern Sea. The "Bright Concubine" married in the West, and the day of her returning never came. For her beautiful painted face, there was the long, cold snow instead of flowers. She, with eyebrows like the antennæ of moths, pined and withered. Her grave is in the sand of the Barbarians' country. Because, when alive, she did not pay out yellow gold, The portrait painted of her was distorted. Now she is dead no one can prevent the bright green grass from spreading over her grave, And men weep because of it.

THINKING OF THE FRONTIER

BY LI T'AI-PO

At what season last year did my Lord leave his Unworthy One? In the Southern garden, the butterflies were fluttering in the young green grass. Now, this year, at what season does the Unworthy One cherish thoughts of her Lord? There is white snow on the Western hills and the clouds of Ch'in are dark. It is three thousand _li_ from here to the Jade Barrier. I desire to send the "harmonious writings," but how can they reach you?

A SONG OF RESENTMENT

BY LI T'AI-PO

At fifteen, she entered the Palace of Han, Her flower-face was like a river in Spring. The Prince chose her of the jade colour To attend his rest within the embroidered screen. As she presented the pillow, she was lovely as the evening moon. He who wears the dragon robes delighted in the sweetly scented wind of her garments. How was it possible for the "Flying Swallow" to snatch the Emperor's love? Jealousy unending! Profoundest grief which can so wound a person And turn the black cloud head-dress to frosted thistledown!

If, for one day, our desires be not satisfied, Verily the things of the world are nothing. Change the duck-feather dress for sweet wine, Cease to embroider dragons on the dresses for the wu dance. She is chilly with bitterness, Words cannot be endured. For one's Lord one plays the table-lute of wu-t'ung wood with strings of silk, But when one's bowels are torn with grief, the strings also break. Grief in the heart at night is anguish and despair.

PICKING WILLOW

BY LI T'AI-PO

The drooping willow brushes the very clear water, Beautifully it flickers in this East-wind time of the year. Its flowers are bright as the snow of the Jade Pass, Its leaves soft as smoke against the gold window. She, the Lovely One, bound in her long thoughts; Facing them, her heart is burnt with grief. Pull down a branch, Gather the Spring colour And send it far, Even to that place Before the Dragon Gate.

AUTUMN RIVER SONG

ON THE BROAD REACH

BY LI T'AI-PO

In the clear green water--the shimmering moon. In the moonlight--white herons flying. A young man hears a girl plucking water-chestnuts; They paddle home together through the night, singing.

VISITING THE TAOIST PRIEST ON THE MOUNTAIN WHICH UPHOLDS HEAVEN.

HE IS ABSENT

BY LI T'AI-PO

A dog, A dog barking. And the sound of rushing water. How dark and rich the peach-flowers after the rain. Every now and then, between the trees, I see deer. Twelve o'clock, but I hear no bell in the ravine. Wild bamboos slit the blue-green of a cloudy sky, The waterfall hangs against the jade-green peak. There is no one to tell me where he has gone. I lean against the pine-trees grieving.

REPLY TO AN UNREFINED PERSON ENCOUNTERED IN THE HILLS

BY LI T'AI-PO

He asks why I perch in the green jade hills. I smile and do not answer. My heart is comfortable and at peace. Fallen peach-flowers spread out widely, widely, over the water. It is another sky and earth, not the world of man.

RECITING VERSES BY MOONLIGHT IN A WESTERN UPPER CHAMBER IN THE CITY OF THE GOLDEN MOUND

BY LI T'AI-PO

The night is still in Chin Ling, a cool wind blows. I am alone in a high room, gazing over Wu and Yüeh. White clouds shine on the water and blur the reflection of the still city. The cold dew soaks my clothes, Autumn moonlight is damp. In the moonlight, murmuring poems, one loses count of time. From old days until now, people who can really see with their eyes are few, Those who understand and speak of a clear river as being bright as silk. I suggest that men meditate at length on Hsieh Hsüan Hui.

PASSING THE NIGHT AT THE WHITE HERON ISLAND

BY LI T'AI-PO

At dawn, I left the Red Bird Gate; At sunset, I came to roost on the White Heron Island. The image of the moon tumbles along the bright surface of the water. The Tower above the City Gate is lost in the twinkling light of the stars. I gaze far off, toward my beloved, the Official of Chin Ling, And the longing in my heart is like that for the Green Jasper Tree. It is useless to tell my soul to dream; When it comes back, it will feel the night turned to Autumn. The green water understands my thoughts, For me it flows to the Northwest. Because of this, the sounds of my jade table-lute Will follow the flowing of its current and carry my grief to my friend.

ASCENDING THE THREE CHASMS

BY LI T'AI-PO

The Sorceress Mountain presses against Green Heaven. The Serpent River runs terribly fast. The Serpent River can be suddenly exhausted. The time may never come when we shall arrive at the Green Heaven. Three dawns shine upon the Yellow Ox. Three sunsets--and we go so slowly. Three dawns--again three sunsets-- And we do not notice that our hair is white as silk.

PARTING FROM YANG, A HILL MAN WHO IS RETURNING TO THE HIGH MOUNTAIN

BY LI T'AI-PO

There is one place which is an everlasting home to me: The Jade Woman Peak on the High Southern Mountain. Often, a wide, flat moonlight Hangs upon the pines of the whirling Eastern stream. You are going to pick the fairy grasses And the shooting purple flower of the _ch'ang p'u_.

After a year, perhaps, you will come to see me Riding down from the green-blue Heaven on a white dragon.

NIGHT THOUGHTS

BY LI T'AI-PO

In front of my bed the moonlight is very bright. I wonder if that can be frost on the floor? I lift up my head and look full at the full moon, the dazzling moon. I drop my head, and think of the home of old days.

THE SERPENT MOUND

SENT AS A PRESENT TO CHIA THE SECRETARY

BY LI T'AI-PO

Chia, the Scholar, gazes into the West, thinking of the splendour of the Capitol. Although you have been transferred to the broad reaches of the river Hsiang, you must not sigh in resentment. The mercy of the Sainted Lord is far greater than that of Han Wên Ti. The Princely One had pity, and did not appoint you to the station of the Unending Sands.

ON THE SUBJECT OF OLD TAI'S WINE-SHOP

BY LI T'AI-PO

Old Tai is gone down to the Yellow Springs. Yet he must still wish to make "Great Spring Wine." There is no Li Po on the terrace of Eternal Darkness. To whom, then, will he sell his wine?

DRINKING IN THE T'AO PAVILION

BY LI T'AI-PO

The house of the lonely scholar is in the winding lane. The great scholar's gate is very high. The garden pool lies and shines like the magic gall mirror; Groves of trees throw up flowers with wide, open faces; The leaf-coloured water draws the Spring sun. Sitting in the green, covered passage-way, watching the strange, red clouds of evening, Listening to the lovely music of flageolets and strings, The Golden Valley is not much to boast of.

A SONG FOR THE HOUR WHEN THE CROWS ROOST

BY LI T'AI-PO

This is the hour when the crows come to roost on the Ku Su Terrace. In his Palace, the King of Wu is drinking with Hsi Shih. Songs of Wu--posturings of Ch'u dances--and yet the revels are not finished. But already the bright hills hold half of the sun between their lips, The silver-white arrow-tablet above the gold-coloured brass jar of the water-clock marks the dripping of much water, And, rising, one can see the Autumn moon sliding beneath the ripples of the river, While slowly the sun mounts in the East-- What hope for the revels now?

POEM SENT TO THE OFFICIAL WANG OF HAN YANG

BY LI T'AI-PO

The Autumn moon was white upon the Southern Lake. That night the Official Wang sent me an invitation. Behind the embroidered bed-curtain lay the Official Secretary--drunk. The woven dresses of the beautiful girls who performed the wu dance took charming lines, The shrill notes of the bamboo flute reached to Mien and O, The phrases of the songs rose up to the silent clouds. Now that we are parted, I grieve. We think of each other a single piece of water distant.

DRINKING ALONE ON THE ROCK IN THE RIVER OF THE CLEAR STREAM

BY LI T'AI-PO

I have a flagon of wine in my hand. I am alone on the Ancestor Rock in the river. Since the time when Heaven and Earth were divided, How many thousand feet has the rock grown? I lift my cup to Heaven and smile. Heaven turns round, the sun shines in the West. I am willing to sit on this rock forever, Perpetually casting my fish-line like Yen Ling. Send and ask the man in the midst of the hills Whether we are not in harmony, both pursuing the same thing.

A FAREWELL BANQUET TO MY FATHER'S YOUNGER BROTHER YÜN, THE IMPERIAL LIBRARIAN

BY LI T'AI-PO

When I was young, I spent the white days lavishly. I sang--I laughed--I boasted of my ruddy face. I do not realize that now, suddenly, I am old. With joy I see the Spring wind return. It is a pity that we must part, but let us make the best of it and be happy. We walk to and fro among the peach-trees and plum-trees. We look at the flowers and drink excellent wine. We listen to the birds and climb a little way up the bright hills. Soon evening comes and the bamboo grove is silent. There is no one--I shut my door.

IN THE PROVINCE OF LU, TO THE EAST OF THE STONE GATE MOUNTAIN, TAKING LEAVE OF TU FU

BY LI T'AI-PO

When drunk, we were divided; but we have been together again for several days. We have climbed everywhere, to every pool and ledge. When, on the Stone Gate Road, Shall we pour from the golden flagon again? The Autumn leaves drop into the Four Waters, The Ch'u Mountain is brightly reflected in the colour of the lake. We are flying like thistledown, each to a different distance; Pending this, we drain the cups in our hands.

THE MOON OVER THE MOUNTAIN PASS

BY LI T'AI-PO

The bright moon rises behind the Heaven-high Mountain, A sea of clouds blows along the pale, wide sky. The far-off wind has come from nearly ten thousand _li_, It has blown across the Jade Gate Pass. Down the Po Têng Road went the people of Han To waylay the men of Hu beside the Bright Green Bay. From the beginning, of those who go into battle, Not one man is seen returning. The exiled Official gazes at the frontier town, He thinks of his return home, and his face is very bitter. Surely to-night, in the distant cupola, He sighs, and draws heavy breaths. How then can rest be his?

THE TAKING-UP OF ARMS

BY LI T'AI-PO

A hundred battles, the sandy fields of battles, armour broken into fragments. To the South of the city they are already shut in and surrounded by many layers of men. They rush out from their cantonments. They shoot and kill the General of the Barbarians. A single officer leads the routed soldiers of the "Thousand Horsemen" returning whence they came.

A SONG OF THE REST-HOUSE OF DEEP TROUBLE

BY LI T'AI-PO

At Chin Ling, the tavern where travellers part is called the Rest-House of Deep Trouble. The creeping grass spreads far, far, from the roadside where it started. There is no end to the ancient sorrow, as water flows to the East. Grief is in the wind of this place, burning grief in the white aspen. Like K'ang Lo I climb on board the dull travelling boat. I hum softly "On the Clear Streams Flies the Night Frost." It is said that, long ago, on the Ox Island Hill, songs were sung which blended the five colours. Now do I not equal Hsieh, and the youth of the House of Yüan? The bitter bamboos make a cold sound, swaying in the Autumn moonlight. I pass the night alone, desolate behind the reed-blinds, and dream of returning to my distant home.

THE "LOOKING-FOR-HUSBAND" ROCK

BY LI T'AI-PO

In the attitude, and with the manner, of the woman of old, Full of grief, she stands in the glorious morning light. The dew is like the tears of to-day; The mosses like the garments of years ago. Her resentment is that of the Woman of the Hsiang River; Her silence that of the concubine of the King of Ch'u. Still and solitary in the sweet-scented mist, As if waiting for her husband's return.

AFTER BEING SEPARATED FOR A LONG TIME

BY LI T'AI-PO

How many Springs have we been apart? You do not come home. Five times have I seen the cherry-blossoms from the jade window, Besides there are the "embroidered character letters." You must sigh as you break the seals. When this happens, the agony of my longing must stop your heart. I have ceased to wear the cloud head-dress. I have stopped combing and dressing the green-black hair on my temples. My sorrow is like a whirling gale--like a flurry of white snow. Last year I sent a letter to the Hill of the Bright Ledge telling you these things; The letter I send this year will again implore you.

East wind--Oh-h-h-h! East wind, blow for me. Make the floating cloud come Westward. I wait his coming, and he does not come. The fallen flower lies quietly, quietly, thrown upon the green moss.

BITTER JEALOUSY IN THE PALACE OF THE HIGH GATE

BY LI T'AI-PO

I

The Heavens have revolved. The "Northern Measure" hangs above the Western wing. In the Gold House, there is no one; fireflies flit to and fro. Moonlight seeks to enter the Palace of the High Gate, To one in the centre of the Palace it brings an added grief.

II

Unending grief in the Cassia Hall. Spring is forgotten. Autumn dust rises up on the four sides of the Yellow Gold House. At night, the bright mirror hangs against a dark sky; It shines upon the solitary one in the Palace of the High Gate.

ETERNALLY THINKING OF EACH OTHER

BY LI T'AI-PO

(_The Woman Speaks_)

The colour of the day is over; flowers hold the mist in their lips. The bright moon is like glistening silk. I cannot sleep for grief. The tones of the Chao psaltery begin and end on the bridge of the silver-crested love-pheasant. I wish I could play my Shu table-lute on the mandarin duck strings. The meaning of this music--there is no one to receive it. I desire my thoughts to follow the Spring wind, even to the Swallow Mountains. I think of my Lord far, far away, remote as the Green Heaven. In old days, my eyes were like horizontal waves; Now they flow, a spring of tears. If you do not believe that the bowels of your Unworthy One are torn and severed, Return and take up the bright mirror I was wont to use.

(_The Man Speaks_)

We think of each other eternally. My thoughts are at Ch'ang An. The Autumn cricket chirps beside the railing of the Golden Well; The light frost is chilly, chilly; the colour of the bamboo sleeping mat is cold. The neglected lamp does not burn brightly. My thoughts seem broken off. I roll up the long curtain and look at the moon--it is useless, I sigh continually. The Beautiful, Flower-like One is as far from me as the distance of the clouds. Above is the brilliant darkness of a high sky, Below is the rippling surface of the clear water. Heaven is far and the road to it is long; it is difficult for a man's soul to compass it in flight. Even in a dream my spirit cannot cross the grievous barrier of hills. We think of each other eternally. My heart and my liver are snapped in two.

PASSIONATE GRIEF

BY LI T'AI-PO

Beautiful is this woman who rolls up the pearl-reed blind. She sits in an inner chamber, And her eyebrows, delicate as a moth's antennæ, Are drawn with grief. One sees only the wet lines of tears. For whom does she suffer this misery? We do not know.

SUNG TO THE AIR: "THE MANTZŬ LIKE AN IDOL"

BY LI T'AI-PO

The trees in the level forest stand in rows and rows, The mist weaves through them. The jade-green of the cold hillside country hurts one's heart. Night colour drifts into the high cupola. In the cupola, a man grieves.

I stand--stand--on the jade steps, doing nothing. The birds are flying quickly to roost. There is the road I should follow if I were going home. Instead, for me, the "long" rest-houses alternate with the "short" rest-houses.

AT THE YELLOW CRANE TOWER, TAKING LEAVE OF MÊNG HAO JAN ON HIS DEPARTURE TO KUANG LING

BY LI T'AI-PO

I take leave of my dear old friend at the Yellow Crane Tower. In the flower-smelling mist of the Third Month he will arrive at Yang Chou. The single sail is shining far off--it is extinguished in the jade-coloured distance, I see only the long river flowing to the edge of Heaven.

IN DEEP THOUGHT, GAZING AT THE MOON

BY LI T'AI-PO

The clear spring reflects the thin, wide-spreading pine-tree-- And for how many thousand, thousand years? No one knows. The late Autumn moon shivers along the little water ripples, The brilliance of it flows in through the window. Before it I sit for a long time absent-mindedly chanting, Thinking of my friend-- What deep thoughts! There is no way to see him. How then can we speak together? Joy is dead. Sorrow is the heart of man.

THOUGHTS FROM A THOUSAND LI

BY LI T'AI-PO

Li Ling is buried in the sands of Hu. Su Wu has returned to the homes of Han. Far, far, the Five Spring Pass, Sorrowful to see the flower-like snow. He is gone, separated, by a distant country, But his thoughts return, Long sighing in grief. Toward the Northwest Wild geese are flying. If I sent a letter--so--to the edge of Heaven.

WORD-PATTERN

BY LI T'AI-PO

The Autumn wind is fresh and clear; The Autumn moon is bright. Fallen leaves whirl together and scatter. The jackdaws, who have gone to roost, are startled again. We are thinking of each other, but when shall we see each other? Now, to-night, I suffer, because of my passion.

THE HEAVEN'S GATE MOUNTAINS

BY LI T'AI-PO

In the far distance, the mountains seem to rise out of the river; Two peaks, standing opposite each other, make a natural gateway. The cold colour of the pines is reflected between the river-banks, Stones divide the current and shiver the wave-flowers to fragments. Far off, at the border of Heaven, is the uneven line of mountain-pinnacles; Beyond, the bright sky is a blur of rose-tinted clouds. The sun sets, and the boat goes on and on-- As I turn my head, the mountains sink down into the brilliance of the cloud-covered sky.

POEM SENT ON HEARING THAT WANG CH'ANG-LING HAD BEEN EXILED TO LUNG PIAO

BY LI T'AI-PO