Flowers wither and decay; and flowers do fleet; they fly all over the skies;
Their bloom wanes; their smell dies; but who is there with them to sympathize?
While vagrant gossamer soft doth on fluttering spring-bowers bind its coils,
And drooping catkins lightly strike and cling on the embroidered screens,
A maiden in the inner rooms, I sore deplore the close of spring.
Such ceaseless sorrow fills my breast, that solace nowhere can I find.
Past the embroidered screen I issue forth, taking with me a hoe,
And on the faded flowers to tread I needs must, as I come and go.
The willow fibres and elm seeds have each a fragrance of their own.
What care I, peach blossoms may fall, pear flowers away be blown;
Yet peach and pear will, when next year returns, burst out again in bloom,
But can it ever be told who will next year dwell in the inner room?
What time the third moon comes, the scented nests have been already built.
And on the beams the swallows perch, excessive spiritless and staid;
Next year, when the flowers bud, they may, it’s true, have ample to feed on:
But they know not that when I’m gone beams will be vacant and nests fall!
In a whole year, which doth consist of three hundred and sixty days,
Winds sharp as swords and frost like unto spears each other rigorous press,
So that how long can last their beauty bright; their fresh charm how long stays?
Sudden they droop and fly; and whither they have flown, ’tis hard to guess.
Flowers, while in bloom, easy the eye attract; but, when they wither, hard they are to find.
Now by the footsteps, I bury the flowers, but sorrow will slay me.
Alone I stand, and as I clutch the hoe, silent tears trickle down,
And drip on the bare twigs, leaving behind them the traces of blood.
The goatsucker hath sung his song, the shades lower of eventide,
So with the lotus hoe I return home and shut the double doors.
Upon the wall the green lamp sheds its rays just as I go to sleep.
The cover is yet cold; against the window patters the bleak rain.
How strange! Why can it ever be that I feel so wounded at heart!
Partly, because spring I regret; partly, because with spring I’m vexed!
Regret for spring, because it sudden comes; vexed, for it sudden goes.
For without warning, lo! it comes; and without asking it doth fleet.
Yesterday night, outside the hall sorrowful songs burst from my mouth,
For I found out that flowers decay, and that birds also pass away.
The soul of flowers, and the spirit of birds are both hard to restrain.
Birds, to themselves when left, in silence plunge; and flowers, alone, they blush.
Oh! would that on my sides a pair of wings could grow,
That to the end of heaven I may fly in the wake of flowers!
Yea to the very end of heaven, Where I could find a fragrant grave!
For better, is it not, that an embroidered bag should hold my well-shaped bones,
And that a heap of stainless earth should in its folds my winsome charms enshroud.
For spotless once my frame did come, and spotless again it will go!
Far better than that I, like filthy mire, should sink into some drain!
Ye flowers are now faded and gone, and, lo, I come to bury you.
But as for me, what day I shall see death is not as yet divined!
Here I am fain these flowers to inter; but humankind will laugh me as a fool.
Who knows, who will, in years to come, commit me to my grave!
Mark, and you’ll find the close of spring, and the gradual decay of flowers,
Resemble faithfully the time of death of maidens ripe in years!
In a twinkle, spring time draws to a close, and maidens wax in age.
Flowers fade and maidens die; and of either nought any more is known. |