SORROW DURING A CLEAR AUTUMN

I climb the hills of Chiu I—Oh-h-h-h-h! I look at the clear streams a long way off. I see distinctly the three branches of the Hsiang River, I hear the sound of its swift current. The water flows coldly; it is on its way to the lake. The horizontal Autumn clouds hide the sky. I go by the "Bird's Path." I calculate the distance to my old home. Oh-h-h-h-h! I do not know how many thousand liit is from Ching to Wu. It is the hour of the Western brightness, of the half-round sun. The dazzle on the island is about to disappear; The smooth lake is brilliantly white—from the moon? Over the lake, the moon is rising. I think of the moment of meeting—the long stretch of time before it. I think of misty Yen and gaze at Yüeh. The lotus-flowers have fallen—Oh-h-h-h-h! The river is the colour of Autumn. The wind passes—passes. The night is endless—endless. I would go to the end of the Dark Sea. How eagerly I desire this! I think much of fishing for a leviathan from the Island of the Cold Sea. There is no rod long enough to raise it. I yield to the great waves, and my sorrow is increased. I will return. I will go home. Oh-h-h-h-h! Even for a little time, one cannot rely upon the World. I long to pick the immortal herbs on the hill of P'êng.