Zhu Qingyu

Out go the great red wedding-chamber candles.

Tomorrow in state the bride faces your parents.

She has finished preparing; she asks of you meekly

Whether her eyebrows are painted in fashion.

Westward from the Jade‑Gate Pass the Lintao road doth go,

Where the border‑wind drives in the grit, a sharp, unceasing foe,

That seeks the very mane of the steed. And as I ride,

Temple on temple meets the eye, but in their courts denied

The solace of the bamboo‑grove; while on each wall within

The bow and sword are hung, a silent witness to the din

Of wars that were, or are to be. And we — we only prize

The warrior in his gilded mail, beneath these bitter skies;

The traveller in his peaceful white wins but a cold regard.

Now, in the autumn’s later light, alone, I keep my ward,

And sing my solitary song; while, over all the plain,

The watch‑towers lift their steadfast heads, and will not lift in vain.

The leaves are fallen, and the frost doth fly,

And all the air is clarion‑clear and cold;

And lo, where the wide river empties lie,

A hundred leagues the advancing tides unfold.

A wind, salt‑sharp, from the unsounded deep

Brings the dank odour of the whale‑path nigh;

And like a burst of snow on crags that keep,

With roar of thunder‑drums the surges cry.

The half‑veiled sun, the cloud‑wrack dim and dun,

Behold the flood that fills the channel’s span;

The merchant‑sails are past, the race is run,

But still the heaving plain of wrath rolls on.

I from the tower at dawn‑time gaze, and find

Thoughts that out‑soar the scene, unbounded, vast;

And round the city, in the autumn wind,

The maple flames, the asters hold them fast.

A day so clear, the wild fields’ hue

Invites the eye from this high room;

And tree‑shades, distant, bathe in cool

The moat where royal waters gloom.

The great ones’ dwellings, proud and old,

Now tenantless in silence keep;

And only see — a sight to hold —

Peonies, within red gates asleep.

A nature from the root how different, how apart!

And not a thing that breathes can share its lonely heart.

Ere the first note of springtime in the grove is heard,

Amidst the driving snow its patient flower is stirr’d.

A beauty that is chill, yet loveth rain and dew;

A fragrance cold, that doth the common dust eschew.

Meet is it that with pine and bamboo it should dwell,

And share with them the planting on the holy fell.

Now that the palace-gate has softly closed on its flowers,

Ladies file out to their pavilion of jade,

Abrim to the lips with imperial gossip

But not daring to breathe it with a parrot among them.