Read 15 ci poems with pinyin and English translations. Notes record textual variants and differing attributions where relevant.
Yan Jidao
After the dream, the high tower is locked fast; woken from wine, the curtains hang low. Last year's grief of spring comes round again with the season. Among the falling flowers a man stands alone; in the fine rain the swallows fly in pairs.
Yan Jidao
I parted in drunkenness at the west tower and, waking, do not remember it. Spring dreams, autumn clouds: meeting and parting are truly easy. The slanting moon fills half the window, and still there is little sleep; the painted screen idly displays the blue-green of the hills of Wu.
Yan Jidao
I cannot keep you here; drunk, you loose the orchid-wood boat and go. One sweep of the oar along the spring-water way of green waves; you pass all the places where the orioles cry at dawn.
Yan Jidao
With coloured sleeves she eagerly offered up the jade cup; in those days I was willing to drink until my face flushed red. She danced until the moon over the willows at the heart of the tower had sunk; she sang until the wind beneath the peach-blossom fan was spent.
Yan Jidao
Before the wine-cup I saw Yuxiao sing a little air; by the silver lamp, that one song was so enchanting. Who could grudge being drunk in the midst of such singing? The song ended and I came home, the wine still not worn off.
Yan Jidao
The old perfume and the faded powder are as they were of old; only a person's heart is less kind than then. In spring there were still a few lines of a letter; since autumn, letters have grown fewer still.
Yan Jidao
Long, long the longing; long, long the longing. If you ask when this longing will ever end — not until the hour we meet again.
Yan Jidao
Drunk, I pat my spring coat, prizing its old fragrance; Heaven sends the grief of parting to vex this reckless one. Year after year autumn grass grows on the roadways; day after day in the tower I watch until the setting sun.
Yan Jidao
In dream I enter the misty waterways of Jiangnan; I walk all Jiangnan through, yet do not meet the one I left. In sleep there is no one to tell the heart's despair; waking, I grieve that the despair of sleep was a cheat.
Yan Jidao
First I saw her on the steps where we matched herbs for sport; again we met in the tower where needles were threaded. Her silk skirt was sweet with dew, her jade pin caught the wind. With her lovely makeup, her brows were shaded green; her shy face bloomed red beneath its powder.
Yan Jidao
At the sky's edge the dew upon the bronze palm has turned to frost; the clouds stretch long as the line of wild geese. Green cup and red sleeves, we greet the Double Ninth — the warmth of the people here feels like home.
Yan Jidao
Red leaves, yellow flowers, the autumn grown late; I think of the traveler a thousand miles away. The drifting clouds have all passed over, the homing geese bring no word — where can I send a letter?
Yan Jidao
She idly touches the zither strings, too listless to tie her skirt; with the powder gone, her natural beauty shows. Beneath her lowered gaze, her thoughts are still fresh.
Yan Jidao
Smiling and radiant, the autumn lotus rises from the green shore: red face and slender waist — long known of old, the nymph who walks upon the waves. Catching her image, she makes her toilet, coy as if about to speak. The west wind — how should it be the lord of flowers in their fullness?
Yan Jidao
A scented letter in hand, I think of Little Lotus. Whom can I ask to convey this lingering grief? Coming home I lie alone through a night of idle freedom; in dreams we meet again in drunken bliss.
