Classic Poem

At the time I was born
I was born to follow my lord.
Our lives were destined to be joined,
As even the heavens must have known.
When I was young
my lord loved me.
There was nothing to compare
with this heart and love.
All that I longed for in this life
was to live with him.
Now that I am older,
for what reason have I been put aside?
A few days ago, serving my lord
I entered the Moon Palace.
How does it happen since then
that I have descended to this lower world?
Three years it has been
since my hair, once combed, became tangled.
I have powders and rouge,
but for whom would I make myself lovely?
The cares that are knotted in my heart
pile up, layer upon layer.
It is sighs that build up,
tears that tumble down.
Life has an end;
cares are limitless.

Indifferent time
is like the flowing of waters.
The seasons, hot and cold, seem to know
time and return as they go.
Hearing, seeing,
there are many things to sense.
Briefly the east wind blows
and melts away the fallen snow.
Two or three branches have bloomed
on the plum tree outside the window:
a bold brightness,
a fragrance deep and mysterious.
At dusk the moon
shines by the bedside
as if sensing him, rejoicing
— Is it my lord; could it be?
I wonder, if I broke off that blossom
and sent it to the place where my lord stays,
what would he think
as he looked at it?

Blossoms fall, new leaves appear,
and shade covers.
Silk curtains are lonely;
embroidered curtains are opened.
I close the lotus screen
and open the peacock screen . . .
How can a day be so tedious,
so full of cares?
I spread open the mandarin duck quilt,
take out the five-colored thread,
measure it with a golden ruler
and make a cloak for my lord
with skill,
with taste.

Gazing toward the place where my lord stays
I think of sending to him
these clothes in a jade white chest
on a pack frame of coral,
but he is so far, so far,
like a mountain, or a cloud.
Who is there to seek him out
over the road of ten thousand ri?
When it reached him and was opened,
would he be pleased?

At night a frost falls;
the wild goose passes over with a cry.
Alone, I climb the tower
and open the jade curtain.
Above East Mountain the moon has risen
and far to the north a star appears.
Is it my lord? Happy,
tears come unbidden.
Let me extract this brightness
and send it to the Phoenix Tower:
fix it to the tower
and illuminate all directions,
that even the deepest mountains and valleys
may be as bright as day.

Heaven and earth are blockaded
under a white monochrome.
Men, even birds on the wing
have disappeared.
With the cold so intense
here, far to the south,
in the lofty Phoenix Tower,
how much colder it must be!
Would that the sunny spring could be sent
to warm the place where my lord stays,
or that the sunlight bathing the thatched eaves
might be sent to the Phoenix Tower.

I tuck my red skirt up,
roll my blue sleeves halfway,
and, as the day declines, by high, thin bamboos
I lean on a staff, lost in thought.
The brief sun sinks swiftly;
the long night settles aloft.

I set the inlaid lute
by the side of the blue lamp
and rest, hoping
to see my lord, even in a dream.
Cold, cold is the quilt!
O, when will night become day?

Twelve times each day,
thirty days each month,
I try, even for a moment, not to think,
that I may forget these cares,
but they are knotted within my heart,
they have pierced through my bones.
Even though ten doctors like P'ien Ch'üeh came,
what could they do with this illness?
Alas, my illness
is because of my lord.

I would rather die and become
a swallowtail butterfly.
I would light upon each flowering branch
one after another, as I went,
till I settled, with perfumed wings
upon the garments of my lord.
O, my lord, though you forget my existence,
I shall attend you.