Joy at Midnight: Dark Frozen Clouds

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.

Gazing, I see the wine-banners flickering: a cluster of smoky village, a few rows of frost-touched trees. Beneath the sinking sun the fishermen tap long poles against their boats as they head home. Broken lotus lies scattered, the withered willows screen them; here along the bank, in twos and threes, washerwomen come to rinse their silk. They turn aside from the traveler, hiding their smiles and speaking shyly.

At this my thoughts turn homeward: the embroidered chamber so lightly cast away, drifting duckweed that cannot rest. I sigh over the pledge of a meeting repeated so earnestly — on what, in the end, does it rest? Sick at heart with parting, I hate in vain that the year is late and my homecoming blocked. I fasten my tear-brightened eyes upon the road to the imperial capital, dim and far: the lone goose's cry grows distant in the vast evening sky.