Classic Poem

Up the river by the White King City,
The water swells and the wind is high.
It is May. Through the Chu-tang gorge
Who dares to sail down to me now—
Down to Ching-chow, where the barley is ripe
And the silk worms have made their cocoons—
Where I sit and spin, with my thoughts of you
Endless as the silken strands?
The cuckoo calls high up in the air. Ah, me! . . .