BY LI T'AI-PO
Beautiful is this woman who rolls up the pearl-reed blind.She sits in an inner chamber,And her eyebrows, delicate as a moth's antennæ,Are drawn with grief.One sees only the wet lines of tears.For whom does she suffer this misery?We do not know.
Beautiful is this woman who rolls up the pearl-reed blind.She sits in an inner chamber,And her eyebrows, delicate as a moth's antennæ,Are drawn with grief.One sees only the wet lines of tears.For whom does she suffer this misery?We do not know.
Beautiful is this woman who rolls up the pearl-reed blind.She sits in an inner chamber,And her eyebrows, delicate as a moth's antennæ,Are drawn with grief.One sees only the wet lines of tears.For whom does she suffer this misery?We do not know.
Beautiful is this woman who rolls up the pearl-reed blind.
She sits in an inner chamber,
And her eyebrows, delicate as a moth's antennæ,
Are drawn with grief.
One sees only the wet lines of tears.
For whom does she suffer this misery?
We do not know.