Sung to the Air: “Looking South Over the River and Dreaming”
By Wên T’ing-Yün
The hair is combed,
The face is washed,
All is done.
Alone, in the upper story of my Summer-house, I bend forward, looking at the river.
A thousand sails pass—but among all of them the one is not.
The slant sunlight will not speak,
It will not speak.
The long-stretched water scarcely moves.
My bowels are broken within me.
Oh! Island of the White Water Flowers!