544. «Two ladies stand on an open marble surface…»
A favorite scroll on the east wall of my room.
Two ladies stand on an open marble surface,
and the mist of the April morning
swirls at their silken feet;
the verdure of the white-barked pines,
almost black against the still white sky,
clouds over the bright blue tiles
of the small pavilion.
Far in the distance, all sense of perspective lost
in the subtleties of the mist,
hang the curling cliffs of the mountains,
without top or bottom,
wrapped in the twisting and winding scarves
of the April mist.
545. «In early spring, bright blossom liven…»
In early spring, bright blossom liven
the clay walls of Tung-Chow-fu.
Around the ancient town of Tung-Chow-fu
a great grey wall of brick and earth was built
some centuries ago. A deep, wide moat
was dug and filled with water.
None but friends
could enter through the barred and guarded gate.
Now peace hangs sweetly over Tung-Chow-fu.
The wall has crumbled down in many spots,
and only kingfishers disturb the sleep
of aged willow trees that, drooping, touch
the lazy curling wavelets of the moat.
All there is green and quiet.
In the spring
it is a joy to cross the stepping stones
and climb the wall, and see the almonds bloom
scarlet against the background of the grey.
546. «At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train…»
Listening to the evening stillness
at Wu-Chih-Mi.
At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train
stops.
I step off and breathe the summer warmth.
At Wu-Chih-Mi there aren't many dwellings.
It dozes lying in its quiet valley
in summer twilight as the hills around it
turn rose and violet and transparent blue
before the night.
I walk across the green and soundless meadow
and soon I see the lanterns of the sky
reveal their silken brilliance one by one.
Alone I stand and listen to the stillness
at Wu-Chih-Mi
and watch the silver dipper
above the northern hilltops as it tips
to quench the thirsting of my day-parched soul
with the beatitude of simple peace.
547. «Around the bend of the Yalu…»[244]
A field of wild iris, that few people know about.
Around the bend of the Yalu
where the cliffs come close to the sparkling, chattering water,
suddenly you come to an open meadow
all purple with wild iris.
This meadow is like a green jade bowl
held by cliffs on three sides
with a grove of birches framing the river bank on the fourth.
Tie your horse to a birch trunk; let him nibble
on the sweet wild strawberries at his feet. Look:
What peace, what silence!
No one here to pluck these myriad blooms of deep purple,
more plentiful than the grass,
evidently so carefully tended
by a kind gardener.
548. «We sailed in a small river boat…»
A grey town, full of people very busy living.
We sailed in a small river boat
up the wide canal on the way to Zo-Ssu
one April day.
We passed through a town
and sailed under its bridge,
a high curved stone bridge,
linking two halves of the town.
The bridge was grey, like the walls
of the houses on either side,
but a very busy life
was evident everywhere,
people selling their wares and walking about the streets,
meeting above on the bridge to enjoy the sun and to engage in
conversation,
women washing their clothes at the edge of the stream below,
and several naked children, happy to be near water,
jumping in for a swim from the sampans anchored ashore.
549. «Ching-pu is an elderly man and all his chores are completed…»
Watching the river boats, having nothing else to do.
Ching-pu is an elderly man and all his chores are completed,
the tilling of fields, the raising of crops and of sons.
Ching-pu sits back on his heels on the sunny terraced knoll
smoking his long-stemmed pipe filled with bitter tobacco,
holding his slender pipe with withered yellow hand,
watching the river below hurrying round the bend,
watching the river sampans swiftly propelling themselves,
prow to the muddy current,
around the bend of the river,
towards the city beyond.
550. «Your gate is heavy, strong, and always barred…»[245]
Some are closed, and some are open;
I like the latter.
Your gate is heavy, strong, and always barred.
Its face is bright vermilion touched with brass.
A stout kai-meng-de guards it day and night
and just a chosen few may step inside.
But I prefer a moongate in my wail —
an open gate that has no use for locks.
Come, let us walk right through and see the pines
shedding dark needles on the moonlit steps!
551. «The white sands on the sloping shore of the river…»
He was almost as old as the river,
and he made more noise than the river itself
The white sands on the sloping shore of the river
lie silent, except for the lapping,
continuous lapping
of the yellow water
against the edge of the slope,
— the great mass of water
poured powerfully
down the deep trough of its old bed.