Sung to the Air: "Looking South over the River and Dreaming"
BY WEN T'ING-YUN
The hair is combed,
The face is washed,
All is done.
Alone, in the upper story of my Summerhouse, I bend forward, looking at the river.
A thousand sails pass — but among all of them the one is not.
The slant sunlight will not speak,
It will not speak.
The long-stretched water scarcely moves.
My bowels are broken within me.
Oh! Island of the White Water Flowers!
The hair is combed,
The face is washed,
All is done.
Alone, in the upper story of my Summerhouse, I bend forward, looking at the river.
A thousand sails pass — but among all of them the one is not.
The slant sunlight will not speak,
It will not speak.
The long-stretched water scarcely moves.
My bowels are broken within me.
Oh! Island of the White Water Flowers!
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