A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

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.

liven the water grasses,

crashing close to the current,
hold the wav'es of their surface
silently toward the sun.

Suddenly, a heavy splash disturbs the silence,

as the aged bulk of a huge river tortoise
turns swiftly
near the top of the yellow water,
to snatch a minnow.

552. «It was a lazy summer noon, as I sat in the stern of a flat-bottomed boat…» [246]

The blue parasol may have been becoming.

I do not know; I hope it was.

It was a lazy summer noon, as I sat in the stern of a flat-bottomed boat,
holding a blue parasol over my head and back.

My boatman rowed unhurriedly through the rushes,

the tall rushes crowding a narrow stream
across the Sung-Hwa-kiang.

I sat enjoying the blue of the sky,

the gold of the sun, the green of the grass and the ripples,
and I did not know whether I was pretty or not,
in my light summer gown,
against my light blue parasol —
I did not know whether I wras pretty or not,

I had not expected to meet you rowing towards me,

swiftly slicing the rushes with the sharp prow of your boat,
as you returned from your early morning fishing.

553. «He was a shepherd and he spent his hours…» [247]

A person encountered in the Western I lills near

Beitsing

He was a shepherd and he spent his hours
upon a hillside taking care of sheep.
He slept in his small hut of mud and straw
and ate his rice and sometimes drank his tea.

His hands were gnarled and grimy and his clothes

he hardly ever changed from month to month
for he was one of the unwashed who lived
so many li from rivers or a spring.

In early morning, when some stranger chanced,

dangling his dusty legs, on donkey back
to pass his hut, the friendly shepherd called
by way of greeting, —
«Have you had your rice?»

554. «At daybreak, as the skies lighten…»

Early morning in Beitsing: a sound fondly recalled.

At daybreak, as the skies lighten,
I roll up my window
and listen to my city.
The summer heat has not yet choked
the perfumed breath of night;
the dust in the street lies unwaken by pattering feet,
but the jingle of peddlers' wares
begins to reach my ears,
and then, what I await:
the whistling pigeon in the sky above Beitsing.

555. «When I was small I had a great vain dream…» [248]

Only the waters of the Ch'in and Wei

Roll green and changeless, as in years

gone by.

Po Chu-i