Page:The works of Li Po - Obata.djvu/203

 To His Friend, Wei, the Good Governor

I blushed to think of Mi Hsien, the poet-recluse —

How he would sit, looking complacently at the Parrot Isle.

No more heroes were born to the enchanted mountains of

And the desolation of autumn covered the world.

But lo, the river swelling with the tides of Three Can- yons,

And the thousands of junks that thronged these wa- ters,

Jostling their white sails, gliding past to Yang-chow!

On looking out on these things, my grief melted away in my heart.

We sat by the gauze-curtained window that opened to the

sky And over the green trees that grew like hair by the

waterside, Watching the sun with fear lest it be swallowed by thq

mountains, And merry at moonrise, drinking still more wine.

Those maids of Wu and pretty girls of Yueh,

How dainty their vermilioned faces!

They came up by the long flight of stairs; emerged,

From behind the bamboo screen, smiling;

And danced, silken-robed, in the wind of spring.

The host was reluctant to pause Though the guests knelt and asked for rest. You showed me your poem of Ching-shan, Rivaling the native beauty of the lotus, That rises from the lucent water, unadorned. [177]

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