Ten Poems by Ou-yang Hsiu

deep, deep in the shade of the court
the oriole flutters and sings
sun warms, the mist warm; The Spring breathes heavily again
green eyes of the willow turn toward whom
across the distance, fragrant grass spreads out
brooding, vacant, restless moving

wordless she leans, wounded that he'd go
a shudder of love for him, and no way to show it
she ponders, and ponders, and finds her heart the same
over and over when she sleeps
the butterfly's imprisoned in her dreams.




        lotus leaves, field upon field, shine green upon the water
        my lonely boat rests moored in flowered shade
        last night, light rain, its hushing fell
        I could not sleep
        morning came, and I rose to a wind from the West

        rains battering, wind's wrench, the golden buds, all broken
        only acacia's crested fragrant blooms remain
        lotus, and a man the same, no lasting satisfactions find
        year upon year this bitter fragrance at our hearts.




ruffed blue-green fields, red blossoms
clear skies fill the eye.
long drift the orioles above embroidered mats,
flit up and down, together
on purpled paths and dust gold wagon tracks
everywhere my horse's hooves tread spring land's green

sudden's a spring dream crowded with my years
the past so far so far
enough, a hundred kinds of pondering
though the misting rain fills the tower
the line of mountains stands unbroken
idly a man tries everywhere
to find some crook of rail to lean on.



        the sound of beating oars wafts in among the flowers
        this shy and gentle girl has come in search of me
        brings lotus leaves to sip from…
        skiff rocks among the lilies
        little red waves in the wine.

        her way, wine fragrance, pure as fine vintage
        the flower's mien, the drunkard's mien, pink flushed and                 facing
        
        drunk, we rested in deep shade; we napped awhile.
        and woke to find, the boat stuck on a sandbar.




the pear leaves redden, cicada's song is done
wind high up in the River of Heaven
flute sounds cold, and cutting
a chill on the mat, clepsydra dripping
who taught the swallows to make so light of parting?

at the edge of the grass the insects moan
as Autumn's frosts congeal
stale wine: awakening
I can't remember when you left
how much of what I really feel is left unsaid
night after night moon dawns
upon my pearl embroidered screen




        blushing, they prepare their dark and iridescent hair
        and when it's as they would they turn toward me
        with swan neck lute of thirteen strings
        sings, one by one, each oriole of Spring

        pretty clouds, flown with the changes
        the dream done, and where am I
        the quiet court has melted into dusk
        gust upon gust, of rain upon broad plantain




after the swallow and the swan the Spring goes
I reckon carefully the million wafting silks, this floating life
come, like Spring dreams, to last how long?
gone, like morning clouds, to nowhere
I heard the lute, untied my sash, among mild spirits
yet though my grasping rent their silken robes
I could not keep them
                                (who can hold the Spring?)
don't stay the only sober one
there must be many
                                sodden drunk
among the flowers.




        beneath the leaves green gren hang apricots
        and branches bare themselves to fill the air
        with flying willow silk
        the sun is high, yet court so deep
        the orioles of evening cry

        she bears her pain, no where to go
        his breezey elegance
        seems, now, so frivolous
        cut off, no news, who'd say when he'd return?




snow clouds are suddenly the blooming cumulous of Spring
I come aware the year's a flower fit to lead the eye
to northern branches where the plum buds brave the chill to open
or southern shore where ripples wrinkle green as wine
the fragrant grasses wait in turn to bloom
I can't endure these feelings; no place to find surcease
before my cup, I'll scheme a hundred schemes to bring Spring on
and won't, though Spring wounds deep, sing sadly.




        you cannot hold it
        pretty girls grow old
        and indolent, there is an end to Spring
        when breeze is warm and moon so fine
        if you can manage yellow gold, buy smiles
        nurture the tender blossom there, don't wait
        no flowers to be plucked
        from empty bough.