China Soup

In the city of Brocade the lute and the pipes all day make riot;
Half of the music is lost in the river breezes, and half in the clouds.
But this song should only belong to heaven;
Among mortals how seldom can it be heard!

The light, where does it go?
The darkness, whence does it come?
Only do I know that of my ageing year by year
One half herein is sped.

The length and breadth of all within the seas he will traverse,
But no signs of grief at separation are on his face.
The thought of years of lonely wandering
Is as the wind of Autumn and the chill of his sword-blade.

With head on pillow, I made a verse, but, mistrusting my memory,
I donned my coat and rose to write it under the guttering lamp.
My simple wife chuckled, "Why all this trouble?"
Even the children at their lessons do not fuss like this!"