Classic Poem

Spring wind in North Park —
Square tablet, round disk of jade,
Fame that stirs capital and frontier a myriad miles away;
Shattered body, powdered bones —
Achievements worthy of the Ling-yen Hall of Heroes.
At the banquet it wins the palm of refinement,
Downs spring sleep,
Pushes back the boundary of grief.
Offered by slender hands,
Rubbed to paste and whipped to milky froth.
Golden thread, partridge-striped.

Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju, though sick of thirst,
Produced a song for every flask —
We have poets here,
And it will support them by the lamp —
Drunken jade, toppling mountain.
Rummage through your memory of a thousand volumes,
And pour forth your inexhaustible spring of poetry;
When I go home at last,
Wen-chün is waiting up
By the little window, to sit with me.