Classic Poem

" Lady, who goes there?
You look so familiar.
Why did you leave
the White Jade Capital in the heavens,
whom do you seek
as the sun goes down? "

" Oh, it's you!
Hear my story now.
My face and ways
do not merit my lord's favor.
Yet he deigns to recognize me
when we meet.
I believed in him
with undivided heart.
I flirted and displayed my charm —
I might have annoyed him.
His welcoming face
has changed from the past.
Reclining, I ponder;
seated, I calculate:
my sins,
piled high as the mountains;
I don't quarrel with heaven,
I don't blame men.
I try to untie this sadness —
it was the Fashioner's doing. "
" Fret not, my dear.
Something eats at my heart, too.
I've served him;
I know him.
His face once placid as water
shows little enough of peace these days.
Spring cold and summer heat,
how did he spend them?
Autumn days and winter skies,
who served them?
Morning gruel and daily rice,
did he have enough?
Do you think he slept well
these long winter nights? "

" I yearn for word of him,
how I long to hear his news!
But the day is done.
Will someone come tomorrow?
Oh, tormenting thought!
Where shall I go?
Led and pushed
when I climb a high hill,
clouds gather,
and — why — a mist, too!
When hills and waters are dark,
how can I see the sun and moon?
What can I see even an inch away?
A thousand miles is so far . . .
I'll go down to the sea
and wait for a boat.
Winds and waves
in turmoil, in shambles.
The boatman is gone;
only the empty ship . . .
Standing alone by the river,
I gaze far into the setting sun.
News from my lord
is out of the question!
I return when darkness creeps
under the eaves of my hut.
For whom does that lamp
burn in the middle of the wall?
Over hill and valley I go,
back and forth, aimlessly.
Exhausted,
I sink into sleep.
At last my prayer is answered,
and I see him in a dream.
But time has stolen
his face once like jade.
I would tell him all,
all my heart desires.
But tears flow on and on,
and I cannot speak.
Unable to tell of my love,
words stick in my throat.
A frivolous rooster
wakes me from my slumber.
Ah, everything was a mocking dream.
Where is my fair one?
Sitting up in my sleep,
I open the window.
Only the pitiable shadow
follows me.
I'd sooner die
and be the setting moon
and shine
in his window. "

" The moon, say you, my lady?
Rather, a driving rain. "