Serving the spirits of the dead
Exactly as if they were living.

Even the morris-dancers' steps
And songs spring from cupidity.

Blue water…a clear moon…
In the moonlight the white herons are flying.
Listen! Do you hear the girls who gather water-chest-nuts?
They are going home in the night, singing.

Oh! the December in which the heritage is handed on
to a suckling!

Against the City of the Yellow Dragon
Our troops were sent long years ago,
And girls here watch the same melancholy moon
That lights our Chinese warriors —
And young wives dream a dream of spring,
That last night their heroic husbands,
In a great attack, with flags and drums,
Captured the City of the Yellow Dragon.

Ah! yes, as a convolvulus
To-day my lifetime will appear.

Fall'n flow'r returning to the branch,—
Behold! it is a butterfly.

Behold the water for the tea
Make for itself a lid of ice!

Though you think to return to this maze of mountains,
Oh, let them brim your heart with wonder! ...
Remember the fisherman from Wu-ling
Who had only a day in the Peach-Blossom Country.

South go the wildgeese, for leaves are now falling,
And the water is cold with a wind from the north.
I remember my home; but the Hsiang River's curves
Are walled by the clouds of this southern country.
I go forward. I weep till my tears are spent.
I see a sail in the far sky.
Where is the ferry? Will somebody tell me?
It's growing rough. It's growing dark.