He is going to the Tung T'ing Lake,My friend whom I have loved so many years.The Spring wind startles the willowsAnd they break into pale leaf.I go with my friendAs far as the river-bank.He is gone—And my mind is filled and overflowingWith the things I did not say.Again the white water flowerIs ripe for plucking.The green, pointed swords of the irisSplinter the brown earth.To the South of the riverAre many sweet-olive trees.I gather branches of them to give to my friendOn his return.
He is going to the Tung T'ing Lake,My friend whom I have loved so many years.The Spring wind startles the willowsAnd they break into pale leaf.I go with my friendAs far as the river-bank.He is gone—And my mind is filled and overflowingWith the things I did not say.Again the white water flowerIs ripe for plucking.The green, pointed swords of the irisSplinter the brown earth.To the South of the riverAre many sweet-olive trees.I gather branches of them to give to my friendOn his return.
He is going to the Tung T'ing Lake,My friend whom I have loved so many years.The Spring wind startles the willowsAnd they break into pale leaf.I go with my friendAs far as the river-bank.He is gone—And my mind is filled and overflowingWith the things I did not say.
He is going to the Tung T'ing Lake,
My friend whom I have loved so many years.
The Spring wind startles the willows
And they break into pale leaf.
I go with my friend
As far as the river-bank.
He is gone—
And my mind is filled and overflowing
With the things I did not say.
Again the white water flowerIs ripe for plucking.The green, pointed swords of the irisSplinter the brown earth.To the South of the riverAre many sweet-olive trees.I gather branches of them to give to my friendOn his return.
Again the white water flower
Is ripe for plucking.
The green, pointed swords of the iris
Splinter the brown earth.
To the South of the river
Are many sweet-olive trees.
I gather branches of them to give to my friend
On his return.
Liu Shih-an, 18th Century