Lu Guimeng

Four hundred moon-bred steeds with dragon's grace,

Proudly prance to golden drums with light-foot pace.

As the music ends, they seem to seek king's affection,

Yet dare not neigh when gazing at the crimson mansion.

Orchid eyes raise slanting paths in view,

Warbler lips mirror flowers aging through.

The golden dragon leaks its water full,

Jade wells break ice early, refreshing and cool.

Though we missed our spring city drinking date,

I've written texts but poems must wait.

Chanting Chu's shore with orchids in full bloom,

I'd gather triple-gems from Shang's cliff gloom.

Wild cranes need wider cages to be free,

Mountain monks' meals need special cookery.

Just cure Shen Yue's dim eyes to make them clear,

Then river flowers will branch without fear.

Winding paths through the tea ground curve and bend,

Where wild trails through the lush foliage extend.

Denser where they face the sun's warm light,

Sparser by the back stream, hidden from sight.

Slowly coiling like cloud-like locks overhead,

Clustered like small scent mounds where fragrances spread.

Where to find this secluded rendezvous?

Dawn's spring dew graces the rocks with pearls anew.

South of the River, wine is brewed on Pure Bright Day,

Where high green streamers in the wind softly sway.

A carefree young man from who knows where lies in rest,

His face covered with petals, still drunk in his nest.

The Yue Kiln opens to autumn's wind and dew so deep,

It captures the emerald hue of a thousand peaks' steep.

Fit to hold the midnight dew, pristine and clear,

And rival Ji Kang's famed cup, without a peer.

White lotus blooms are often outweighed by red flowers;

They'd rather be transplanted before lunar bowers.

Heartless they seem, but they have deep grief no one knows.

See them fall in moonlight when the morning wind blows.

The spring court at dawn doth a special scene display,

Where clear dewdrops on winding flowers lay.

A bumblebee, once passing, turns so lazy and deep,

That on fragrant stamens it nightly falls asleep.

I remember the fine land of Lingyang in bygone days,

With Hsieh Tiao's green hills and Li Bai's towers ablaze.

Only the thoughts on the stream at sunset still stay—

A tavern sign's shadow falls where spring streams flow away.

On cold waters, my lone oar touches celestial spheres,

As if riding a raft to ask the way of the starry seers.

Though the azure void holds infinite beauty and grace,

The name "Star-Guest" still brings a troubled look to my face.

Like snow it flies down, stands on mosses green,

Joins river gulls to keep me from the scene.

Seeing my boat about to drift away,

"I beg you be my messenger to clouds and spray."

The cold rain but adds to summer's humid air,

The mist, newborn, can't clothe spring's presence fair.

A few small twigs with blossoms barely awake,

Deeply grieve the flower-guardian in their sake.

The fair one holds a zither, jade and rare,

Plays "Parting Cranes" with grief beyond compare.

South and north the paired birds now fly apart,

Once shared perches no more shelter the heart.

Surely not metal or stone's enduring core,

How could things stay as they were before?

Born as twin flowers on a single stem,

They'll fall at different times—farewell to them.

The autumn woods face the setting sun's ray,

As light and shade themselves now fade away.

Still hoping to make your heart understand,

Each dawn I wear orchids with trembling hand.