BY WEN T'ING-YUN

The hair is combed,
The face is washed,
All is done.

Alone, in the upper story of my Summerhouse, I bend forward, looking at the river.
A thousand sails pass — but among all of them the one is not.
The slant sunlight will not speak,
It will not speak.
The long-stretched water scarcely moves.

My bowels are broken within me.
Oh! Island of the White Water Flowers!