Read 13 ci poems with pinyin and English translations. Notes record textual variants and differing attributions where relevant.
Liu Yong
Long I lean upon the high tower, the wind fine and thin; gazing to the very edge of spring's sorrow, it rises gloomily upon the sky's rim. In the grass-color and the misty light of the fading glow, wordless — who understands this leaning upon the rail?
Liu Yong
Ever since spring came the green has turned sad and the red distressed; my heart finds no pleasure in anything. The sun climbs the flower-tips, the orioles thread the willow strands — and still I lie pressed beneath the scented quilt. The warm softness wasted, the glossy cloud of hair fallen loose; all day listless, sick of combing and arraying myself. Nothing to be done: I hate that the heartless one went off and left never a word.
Liu Yong
The cold cicadas cry shrill; before the long pavilion at evening, the sudden rain has just ceased. At the city gate we drink in the tent with heavy hearts; even as we linger, the orchid-wood boat urges departure. Hand in hand we gaze at each other through tear-filled eyes, and cannot speak for choking. I think: I go on and on, a thousand li of misty water, and the evening haze lies deep over the vast sky of Chu.
Liu Yong
The southeast, a land of strategic splendor; the great city of the Three Wu; Qiantang, from of old, has been prosperous. Misty willows and painted bridges, wind-blown curtains and green screens, in tier on tier a hundred thousand households. Cloud-trees ring the sandy dike, angry breakers roll up frost and snow, and the natural moat runs on without bound. The markets display pearls and jade; the houses are heaped with silks, all vying in splendor.
Liu Yong
Just past the year of the hairpin, her cloud-black hair first bound up, she learned singing and dancing. At the feasts, before the cups, young lords offered what they would. She counted it a trifle — one smile repaid; a thousand pieces of gold she would scorn to glance at. She only ever feared that the blossom-light of her youth, so brief, would be stolen away, and the bright hours pass in vain.
Liu Yong
Facing the soughing evening rain that sprinkles the river sky, one washing of clear autumn. By degrees the frosty wind turns chill and sharp; the passes and rivers lie cold and forsaken; the fading glow rests upon the tower. Everywhere the red fades and the green is pared away; slowly the glory of the year draws to its end. Only the waters of the Yangtze flow eastward in silence.
Liu Yong
The far shore drinks in the last of the rain; the rain ended, I feel the river sky turn to evening. On the islet where they gather kingfisher plumes all is hushed; gulls and herons stand in pairs. I mark a few points of fishing lamps hidden among the reeds. The painted oars are rested; boatmen talk in pairs, saying that tonight's course points far away to a village in the smoky trees.
Liu Yong
Upon the golden notice-board, by ill chance I lost the hope of the topmost name. An enlightened age has for the moment passed over a worthy man — what is one to do? Since the wind and cloud did not favor me, why not give rein to wandering wild? Why speak of winning and losing? A man of talent, a maker of songs, is of himself a minister in plain white cloth.
Liu Yong
I gaze where the rain has ceased and the clouds have broken; leaning sorrowfully on the railing, I watch the autumn light go. The evening scene is desolate, enough to stir the sadness Song Yu knew. Over light water-winds the water ferns grow old; the moonlit dew turns cold and the plane-tree leaves drift down yellow. It sends grief into the heart. Where is my old friend? — mist and water without end.
Liu Yong
Thin quilt, narrow pillow, the weather turning cold: suddenly I taste the savor of parting. Tossing, I count the cold night-watches; I rise, and lie down again. After all, sleep will not come; one night is long as a year.
Liu Yong
I remember our first meeting in the inner chamber; it should have been ours to be joined always. Who could have thought that a brief secret joy would turn to parting sorrow? And now too it is the fading twilight of spring; I face a whole world of riotous flowers and wanton willow-down. I fear only that all this fair radiance has gone away with him.
Liu Yong
Frozen clouds, a heavy and sullen sky; a single leaf of a boat. In high spirits I put out from the river islet. I cross a myriad gorges and a thousand crags, deep into the farthest reaches of Yue's streams. The angry waves subside, the woodman's wind springs up; again I hear the merchants calling to one another. A scrap of sail is hoisted high; the painted-prowed boat skims past the southern shore.
Liu Yong
Night rain drips on the empty steps; in the lonely inn I start from dream, my mood desolate. This wash of idle sorrow I think no painter could picture. Autumn grows old and the crickets' song turns bitter; the night draws to its close and the lamp-flowers fall one by one. Most unbearable of all: I spend these lovely nights sleeping alone.
