on mawei slope
on the terrace of assembled angels i
in her quiet window
when the emperor came back from his ride they had murdered lady yang —
the sun has gone slanting over a lordly roof
that passion unforgettable through all the suns and moons
and red-blossoming branches have leaned toward the dew
too young to have learned what sorrow means,
they had led him to forsake her by reminding him
since the emperor last night summoned a new favourite
attired for spring, she climbs to her high chamber….
of an emperor slain with his lady once, in a well at jingyang palace.
and lady yang’s bright smile came through the curtains.
the new green of the street-willows is wounding her heart —
just for a title she sent him to war.
thinking only of their vow that they would crush the tartars- –
on the terrace of assembled angels ii
on the desert, clad in sable and silk, five thousand of them fell….
the emperor has sent for lady guoguo.
on the mountain holiday thinking of my brothers in shandong
澳门太阳娱乐集团官网，but arisen from their crumbling bones on the banks of the river at the
in the morning, riding toward the palace-gate,
all alone in a foreign land,
dreams of them enter, like men alive, into rooms where their loves lie
disdainful of the paint that might have marred her beauty,
i am twice as homesick on this day
to meet him she smooths her two moth-tiny eyebrows.
when brothers carry dogwood up the mountain,
each of them a branch-and my branch missing.
a nanjing landscape
at nanjing ferry
though a shower bends the river-grass, a bird is singing,
this one-story inn at nanjing ferry
a song of liangzhou
while ghosts of the six dynasties pass like a dream
is a miserable lodging-place for the night —
they sing, they drain their cups of jade,
around the forbidden city, under weeping willows
but across the dead moon’s ebbing tide,
they strum on horseback their guitars.
which loom still for three miles along the misty moat.
lights from guazhou beckon on the river.
…why laugh when they fall asleep drunk on the sand ? —
how many soldiers ever come home?
at chuzhou on the western stream
a night-mooring near maple bridge
while i watch the moon go down, a crow caws through the frost;
a song of the palace
where tender grasses rim the stream
under the shadows of maple-trees a fisherman moves with his torch;
her tears are spent, but no dreams come.
and deep boughs trill with mango-birds,
and i hear, from beyond suzhou, from the temple on cold mountain,
she can hear the others singing through the night.
on the spring flood of last night’s rain
ringing for me, here in my boat, the midnight bell.
she has lost his love. alone with her beauty,
the ferry-boat moves as though someone were poling.
she leans till dawn on her incense-pillow.
the day of no fire
as the holiday approaches, and grasses are bright after rain,
her jade-green alcove curtained thick with silk,
and the causeway gleams with willows, and wheatfields wave in the wind,
her vermilion screen with its pattern of flowers,
we are thinking of our kinsfolk, far away from us.
i left home young. i return old;
her eight- foot dragon-beard mat and her quilt brocaded in squares
o cuckoo, why do you follow us, why do you call us home?
speaking as then, but with hair grown thin;
are ready now for nights that are neither warm nor cold.
and my children, meeting me, do not know me.
they smile and say: “stranger, where do you come from?”