Read 24 ci poems with pinyin and English translations. Notes record textual variants and differing attributions where relevant.
About Li Qingzhao (in Chinese) →
Li Qingzhao
In heaven the star-river has turned; on earth the curtains are let down. A chill rises from pillow and sleeping-mat, and the stains of tears increase. I rise and loosen my silk robe, and ask idly: what hour of the night is it?
Li Qingzhao
The red lotus has faded, its fragrance spent; the jade mat feels autumn's chill. I lightly loosen my silk robe and alone board the magnolia boat. Who will send a brocaded letter through the clouds? When the wild geese come back in their formation, the moon will fill the western tower.
Li Qingzhao
Heaven joins the cloud-billows and meets the dawn mist; the River of Stars seems to turn as a thousand sails dance. It seems my dreaming soul returns to the abode of the Lord on High. I hear the voice of Heaven, earnestly asking me where I am bound.
Li Qingzhao
I often remember the dusk at the brookside pavilion: drunk so deep I lost the way home. When the pleasure was spent and we turned the boat back late, we strayed into the heart of the lotus blossoms. Pushing on, pushing on—we startled into flight a whole flock of gulls and herons from the sandbank.
Li Qingzhao
Last night the rain was sparse, the wind sudden; a heavy sleep could not dispel the lingering wine. I try asking the maid who rolls up the blind, but she answers that the crabapple is as before. Do you not know, do you not know? The green should be lush now, and the red thin.
Li Qingzhao
The incense is cold in the golden lion censer; the quilt is tossed in red waves. I rise and listlessly comb my hair. I let the jeweled casket gather dust, and the sun climb the curtain hook. So afraid of the bitter grief of parting—so many things I would say, and then leave unsaid. Lately I have grown thin: not from the after-effects of wine, and not from grieving over autumn.
Li Qingzhao
Year after year amid the snow I would wear a spray of plum and grow drunk. I have crumpled the plum blossoms to pieces with no joy in it, and won only clear tears soaking all my robe.
Li Qingzhao
Warm rain and clearing wind first break the frost; willow eyes and plum cheeks—already I feel the spring heart stirring. The mood for wine, the feeling for poetry—with whom can I share them? Tears melt the remnant powder, and the floral ornaments feel heavy.
Li Qingzhao
Cold sunlight, bleak and sighing, climbs the latticed window; the paulownia must hate last night's frost. When the wine is done I love still more the bitter pressed tea; when dreams break, the scent of the ruinao incense suits me best.
Li Qingzhao
Thin mist and heavy clouds—sorrow fills the long day; the ruinao incense burns away within the golden beast. The fair festival comes round again, the Double Ninth: on the jade pillow and gauze bed-canopy, at midnight the chill first pierces through.
Li Qingzhao
The wind has stopped, the dust is fragrant, the flowers are all gone; the day is late, and I am too weary to comb my hair. Things remain, the person is gone—all is over with everything; before I can speak, the tears flow first.
Li Qingzhao
The setting sun is molten gold, the evening clouds joined like jade—but where am I now? The willows are dyed in thick mist, the flute's plum-blossom air is plaintive: how much of spring is in the air? The Lantern Festival, and mild, harmonious weather—and yet in due course, how could wind and rain not come? Friends come to call with perfumed carriages and gemmed horses; I must decline these wine companions and poetry friends.
Li Qingzhao
Seeking and searching, cold and desolate, wretched and sorrowful and forlorn. In the season when it warms and then turns cold again, it is hardest to find rest. Two or three cups of thin wine—how can they stand against the evening wind's sharpness? The wild geese pass over; even as my heart breaks, they turn out to be old acquaintances.
Li Qingzhao
Dim and pale, a light yellow, its nature soft and mild; far in feeling, far in trace, only its fragrance stays behind. What need has it of pale green or deep crimson? Of itself it is the first rank among flowers.
Li Qingzhao
Lonely in the deep women's rooms: one inch of tender heart, a thousand strands of sorrow. I cherish spring, yet spring departs; a few drops of rain hasten the flowers on.
Li Qingzhao
Among the grass crickets chirp; the startled leaves fall from the paulownia. Now among mortals — and in heaven above — the grief lies heavy. Stairs of cloud and ground of moon are locked behind a thousand barriers. Though the drifting raft may come, though the drifting raft may go, we do not meet.
Li Qingzhao
Light and swaying, the spring brightness on the day of Cold Food; in the jade brazier the aloeswood curls its last thread of smoke. I wake from dreaming on the pillow, my floral ornaments half hidden beside it.
Li Qingzhao
A wind comes over the lake, the waves are wide and vast; autumn is late now, the red grows sparse, the fragrance faint. The light of water and the color of hills grow dear to one; the goodness past all telling is endless.
Li Qingzhao
A deserted courtyard, and once more a slanting wind and fine rain: the double gates must be closed. The petted willows and pampered flowers — Cold Food draws near; every manner of heart-troubling weather. A hard-rhymed poem finished, the heady wine worn off, and still the taste of idleness is another thing. The migrating geese have all passed over; ten thousand thoughts within me cannot be sent.
Attributed to Li Qingzhao
Having done with the swing, I rise and listlessly smooth my slender hands. Heavy with dew, the flowers are slender; thin sweat soaks my light garment through.
Attributed to Li Qingzhao
Her face, a lotus, opens in a smile; the slanted flying-duck ornament sets off her fragrant cheeks. No sooner do the waves of her eyes stir than someone guesses.
Attributed to Li Qingzhao
From the flower-seller's carrying pole I bought a branch of spring about to open. Its light even tint seems stained with tears; it still bears the mark of red dawn-cloud and morning dew.
Attributed to Li Qingzhao
Grieving for the spring, too listless to dress my hair again; the evening wind blows the first plum petals down in the courtyard. Pale clouds come and go; the moon is thin and spare.
Li Qingzhao
Imperial awnings hang low, red balustrades shelter it with care: among them all it alone holds the last of the spring. Its beauty stands quiet and still; in that grace one sees nature's own truth. Wait until the common flowers are past — one touch of wind and dew and its dawn-dress is new. Enchanting, alluring, it mocks the wind and laughs at the moon, and long detains the Lord of Spring.
