A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

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.