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Six Beauties: Late Spring Meditations
and mourn how swiftly in exile days are cast away.
I beg the parting spring to linger just a while,
but spring departs like bird-wings in the gray,
leaving no trace behind.
I ask where fallen blossoms hide:
the midnight wind and driving rain
have buried beauty fit to topple states.
Where golden hairpins slipped, sweet scents remain.
They spot the peach-strewn path, they drift the willow street.
For whom do passionate souls pursue and grieve?
Only the bee-matchmakers and butterfly-envoys meet,
knocking upon my window eaves.
The eastern garden sits in quiet gloom,
while darkening shadows slowly close around.
I wander silently the withered thicket bloom,
and breathe a sigh upon the ground.
The trailing branches pluck at travelers' sleeves,
as if to pull a garment and delay,
with parting sorrow that no bound relieves.
I take the tiny scattered petals, worn and gray,
and thrust them stubbornly into my cap.
Yet they can never match the living flower
that trembled on a hairpin in day's happy hour,
tilting toward a face without a gap.
Wherever now your drifting currents flow,
pray do not chase the rising and the falling tide:
I fear upon these broken petals, red and slow,
some words of longing still might bide,
and how shall I ever read them now?
願春暫留,春歸如過翼。
一去無跡。
爲問花何在,夜來風雨,葬楚宮傾國。
釵鈿墮處遺香澤。
亂點桃蹊,輕翻柳陌。
多情爲誰追惜。
但蜂媒蝶使,時叩窗隔。
東園岑寂。
漸蒙籠暗碧。
靜繞珍叢底,成嘆息。
長條故惹行客。
似牽衣待話,別情無極。
殘英小、強簪巾幘。
終不似一朵,釵頭顫嫋,向人側。
漂流處、莫趁潮汐。
恐斷紅、尚有相思字,何由見得。
regretting in lodging guest-state, light-time vainly thrown.
Wishing spring temporarily stay,
spring returning like passing wing.
One departure without trace.
For asking flowers where are they,
night coming wind and rain,
burying Chu palace overturning states.
Hairpin and ornament fallen place leaving fragrance marsh.
Disorderly dot-spotting peach paths,
lightly turning willow streets.
Passionate for whom following and grieving.
Only bee matchmakers and butterfly envoys,
sometimes knocking window partitions.
East garden silent and lonely.
Gradually dimming dark blue-green.
Quietly circling precious thicket base,
forming sighs.
Long branches deliberately provoking traveling guests.
Like pulling robes waiting to converse,
parting emotion without limit.
Remaining petals small,
forcedly pinning to scarf cap.
Ultimately not like one single flower,
hairpin head trembling and swaying,
toward person tilting.
Drifting places,
do not chase tide and ebb.
Fearing broken red,
still having longing words,
how by what means seen and got.