by Li Qingzhao (1084‐1155)
I pine and peak
And questless seek
Groping and moping to linger and languish
Anon to wander and wonder, glare, stare and start
With grim dart
And keen canker of rankling anguish.
Sudden a gleam
Of fair weather felt
But fled as fast - and the ice-cold season stays.
How hard to have these days
In rest or respite, peace or truce.
Sip upon sip of tasteless wine
Is of slight use
To counter or quell
The fierce lash of the evening blast.
The wild geese - see -
Ah, there's the grief
That's chief - grief beyond bearing,
Wild fowl far faring
In days of old you sped
Bearing my true love's tender thoughts to me.
Lo, how my lawn is rife with golden blooms
Of bunched chrysanthemums -
Weary their heads they bow.
Who cares to pluck them now?
While I the casement keep
Lone, waiting, waiting for night
And, as the shades fall
Upon broad leaves, sparse rain-drops drip.
Ah, such a plight
Of grief - grief unbearable, unthinkable.
Published by Robin
I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.
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