Classic Poem

Seventh of the Seventh Month, 722

You, for whom I have longed standing across the River of Heaven, are coming.
Let me untie my sash and be ready

Seventh of the Seventh Month, 724

Putting a boat in the River of Eternal Heaven, tonight you'll be coming to my place

Seventh of the Seventh Month, 729

The Cowherd, since parting with the Princess Weaver
as heaven did with earth,
has stood facing the straw mat, the river,
thinking, and becoming upset,
grieving, and becoming upset,
his hopes gone in the blue waves,
his tears dried in the white clouds —
how could he be just sighing like that?
How could he be just longing like that?
He wants a clay-coated boat,
he wants gem-studded oars.
Then he would paddle across in morning calm,
he would row across at evening tide,
spread on the Riverbed of Eternal Heaven
her heaven-flying scarf,
and her gemlike arm, his gemlike arm for a pillow,
sleep many a night,
though it may not be autumn.

ENVOYS

Though winds and clouds pass between the two banks, never do the words of my distant
wife

Only a stone's throw away it seems, but the River of Heaven sets us apart — there aren't
many things I can do