Stilling the Passions

Ah, the precious rare and lovely form

She stands out unique in all the age.

Though hers is a beauty that would overthrow a city

She intends to be known for her virtue.

In purity she rivals her sounding pendant jades

In fragrance she vies with the hidden orchid.

She disowns tender feelings among the vulgar

And carries her principles among the high clouds.

She grieves that the morning sun declines so quickly.

That human life is a continual striving.

All alike die within a hundred years

How few our joys, the sorrows how many!

She raises the red curtain and sits straight,

Lightly playing the clear-sounding cither to express her feelings.

She plays a lovely melody with her slender fingers,

As her white sleeves sweep and sway in time.

A swift glance from her lovely sparkling eyes-

Uncertain whether to speak or smile.

The melody is half played through

And the sun is sinking at the western window.

The sad autumn mode echoes through the woods

And white clouds cling to the mountain.

She glances up at Heaven's road,

Shelooks down and tightens the strings.

In spirit and behavior she is charming,

Her attitudes are altogether lovely.

I am moved as she quickens the clear notes'tempo

And wish to speak with her, knee to knee.

I would go in person to exchange vows,

But I fear to transgress against the rites.

I would wait for the phoenix to convey my proposal

But I worry that another will anticipate me.

In uncertainty of mind and discomposure

My soul in an instant is nine times transported.

I would like to be the collar of your dress

And breathe the lingering fragrance of your fower-adorned hair.

But at night you take your silken dress off

How hateful autumn nights that never end.

I would like to be the girdle of your skirt

And bind the modest slender body.

But as weather changes, cool or warm

The old is cast aside, the new put on.

I would like to be the gloss of your hair

As you brush out the dark locks over sloping shoulders.

But all too often lovely women wash their hair

And it is left dry when the water leaves.

I would like to be your penciled eyebrow

To move gracefully with your eyes as you glance around.

But rouge and powder must be fresh applied

And it is destroyed as you make up your face anew.

I would like to be the reed that makes your mat

On which you rest your tender body until fall.

But then a robe offur will take its place:

A year will pass before the mat is used again.

I would like to be the silk that makes your slipper

To press your white foot wherever you go.

But there is a time for walking and a time for rest:

The shoes alas are thrown beside your bed.

I would like to be your daytime shadow

To cleave to your body always, to go cast or west.

But tall trees make so much shade

At times, I fear, we could not be together.

I would like to be your night-time candle

To shine on your jade-like face in your room

But with the spreading rays of the rising sun

My light at once goes out, my brilliancc eclipsed.

I would like to be the bamboo that makes your fan

To dispense a cooling breeze from your tender hand.

But mornings when the white dew falls

I must look at your sleevc from afar.

I would like to be the wood of the wu-t'ung tree

To make the singing lute you hold on your knees

But music, like joy, when most intense turns sad

And in the end I am pushed aside as you play no more.

Put to the test my wishes all are frustrated

And I feel only the desolation of a bitter heart.

Overcome with sadness, and no one to confide in,

I idly walk to the southern wood.

I rest where the dew still hangs on the magnolia

And take shelter under the lingering shadows of the greenpines.

On the chance I should see her as I walk

I am torn in my breast between hope and fear.

To the end all is desolatc, no one appears;

Left alone with restless thoughts, vainly seeking

Smoothing my light robe I return to the path

Continually sighing as I watch the setting sun.

With steps uncertain, destination forgotten

Dejected in bearing, face filled with grief.

Leaves leave the branch and futter down

The air is biting as cold comes on.

The sun disappears bearing its rays

The moon adorns the cloud fringes with light.

With sad cries the solitary bird fies home,

Seeking its mate an animal passes and does not return.

I am sorry that my youth is in its decline

I regret that this year draws to a close.

Hoping to follow her in my nighttime dream,

My soul is agitated and finds no rest:

Like a boatman who has lost his oar,

Like a clif-scaler who finds no handhold.

Just now

The winter constellations shine at my window

The north wind blows chill.

I am agitated and unable to sleep,

Obsessed by a host offancies.

I rise and tie my sash to await the morning,

Deep frost glistens on the white steps.

The cock folds his wings and has yet to crow

While from afar foats the shrill sad note of a flute.

At first a harmony ofdelicate strains,

At last it becomes penetrating and sad.

I imagine that it is she playing there

I would convey mylove by the passing cloud,

But the passing cloud departs without a word,

It is swift in its passing by.

Vain it is to grieve myself with longing,

In the end the way is blocked by mountains, crossed by rivers.

I welcome the fresh wind that blows my ties away

And consign my weakness of will to the receding waves.

I repudiate the meeting in the Man-ts'ao poem

And sing the old song ofthe Shao-nan.

I level all cares and cling to integrity,

Lodge my aspirations at the world's end.