In the Spring-Time on the South Side of the Yangtze Kiang
The green spring—and what time?
The yellow bird sings and will not cease.
On the bank of the Kiang I am growing old, white-haired.
My homeward way lies lost beyond the horizon.
Though my thoughts fly into the clouds of Chin,
I remain with my shadow under the moon of Chu.
My life is a wasted thing,
My garden and fields have long been buried under weeds.
What am I to do so late in my years
But sing away and let alone the imperial gate of gold?
The yellow bird sings and will not cease.
On the bank of the Kiang I am growing old, white-haired.
My homeward way lies lost beyond the horizon.
Though my thoughts fly into the clouds of Chin,
I remain with my shadow under the moon of Chu.
My life is a wasted thing,
My garden and fields have long been buried under weeds.
What am I to do so late in my years
But sing away and let alone the imperial gate of gold?
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