by Li Qingzhao (1084–1155)
Translated from the French of Judith Gautier by James Whitall
Before daybreak the breezes whisper
through the trellis at my window;
they interrupt and carry off my dream,
and he of whom I dreamed
vanishes from me.
I climb upstairs
to look from the topmost window,
but with whom? ...
I remember how I used to stir the fire
with my hairpin of jade
as I am doing now...
but the brasier holds nothing but ashes.
I turn to look at the mountain;
there is a thick mist,
a dismal rain,
and I gaze down at the wind-dappled river,
the river that flows past me forever
without bearing away my sorrow.
I have kept the rain of my tears
on the crape of my tunic;
with a gesture I Ring these bitter drops
to the wild swans on the river,
that they may be my messengers.