The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard complete edition |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
What time my husband went to banishment |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
What time my husband went to banishment
(Soo Hwuy.)
What time my husband went to banishment,
I followed to the foot of yonder bridge;
I bore my grief, but could not say “Farewell!”
I followed to the foot of yonder bridge;
I bore my grief, but could not say “Farewell!”
Ah, why have you not written me, my love?
Our couch, remember, even in spring is cold.
The staircase that you built has crumbled down,
And dust has soiled the windows and white curtains,
Our couch, remember, even in spring is cold.
The staircase that you built has crumbled down,
And dust has soiled the windows and white curtains,
My mind is sore perplexed; I would I were
The shadow of the moon upon the sea,
The cloud that floats above the lofty hills.
The careless clouds behold my husband's face,
And she, the sea-moon, in her monthly round;
They know the man a thousand leagues away.
The shadow of the moon upon the sea,
The cloud that floats above the lofty hills.
The careless clouds behold my husband's face,
222
They know the man a thousand leagues away.
The tall green rushes by the river's side
Have faded, since we parted; but the plum—
Who would have thought before we met again
The plum-tree would have blossomed many times?
Have faded, since we parted; but the plum—
Who would have thought before we met again
The plum-tree would have blossomed many times?
The flowers unfold themselves to meet the spring;
Our hearts unfold in vain, no spring is ours.
My thoughts are busied so with your return
The willow at the door droops to the ground,
And no one sweeps away its fallen leaves.
Our hearts unfold in vain, no spring is ours.
My thoughts are busied so with your return
The willow at the door droops to the ground,
And no one sweeps away its fallen leaves.
The grass before the house grows thick and rank;
My husband's flute hangs idle in the hall;
He sings no more the songs of Keang-nan.
My husband's flute hangs idle in the hall;
He sings no more the songs of Keang-nan.
Because no letter comes to me, my lord,
My silver dress that on my pillow lies
Is dyed with tears, and tears have spoiled the flowers
Broidered in gold upon my satin robe.
My silver dress that on my pillow lies
Is dyed with tears, and tears have spoiled the flowers
Broidered in gold upon my satin robe.
Thrice have I heard in spring the wild-fowl's cry,
Crossing the swollen stream. I sing old songs;
My heart-strings seem to break upon the lute.
I faint with love, and grief; grief ends my song.
Crossing the swollen stream. I sing old songs;
My heart-strings seem to break upon the lute.
I faint with love, and grief; grief ends my song.
Forget not, O my lord, your own true wife,
Your wife, whose love is firmer than the hills,
Whose thoughts are filled with you. She weaves this song
To win the gracious ear of Majesty.
O Son of Heaven! Let him return, and soon!
Your wife, whose love is firmer than the hills,
Whose thoughts are filled with you. She weaves this song
To win the gracious ear of Majesty.
O Son of Heaven! Let him return, and soon!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |