[1967] 540. «Somewhere…» Somewhere there is a gate that I must find and open, take out the bolt and lilt the latch and push, and then the road ahead will stretch away smooth, clear and safe for me to walk at leisure; a small white gate, wrought in a low white fence, along the outskirts of this great dense wood. There must be somewhere in the tall brush and thicket on my trail a mark, a sign, perhaps a broken twig, a tree peculiarly bent, a stone lying against another; there must be somewhere an indication, maybe even arrow pointing that way, so that I may follow; it cannot be that I have not remembered those previous markings, and have lost the trail. [1960s] 541. «High in the air, the high blue air above us…»[242] High in the air, the high blue air above us, where birds and men fly peacefully together, for endless centuries, the long lost notes of many songs have floated by, unheard to living ears. We have not yet become quite strong enough to catch those songs and hear and tame them for the world to know, but they are there, for they were never lost completely. And if sometimes, in the haze along the fringes of this life we think we meet a sudden melody that we have never known, barely distinguished words, perhaps a rhyme that we reach out to touch — we vainly strain, but all that we can feel is some vague sense of beauty created somewhere once, and waiting for us, not quite completely lost, nor yet recaptured. [1960s] 542. «Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger…» Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger that all one's past will disappear afar just like the soft sound of some forgotten music, like in the dark of night a fallen star? [1980s] 543–561 My China[243] 543. «I put my brushes carefully, one by one…» Arranging the brushes, and picking the right one to write a poem. I put my brushes carefully, one by one, into their respective cones in the brass brush stand, meticulously smoothing each sensitive tuft with my fingers, to make a pinpoint end. I pull out the small white bone latch of my ink box, lifting its black and gold silk lid. The ink tablet, half covered with carved inscription, lies before me. I pull out the two white bone pieces latching the powder-blue silk covers of a small thick volume. The ivory-white rice paper page is blank. The moon has set over the western horizon and night fragrance is drifting into my window. I pick a brush of the needed thickness, touch the surface of water in a porcelain cup and caressing the ink tablet gently, write down a poem. 544. «Two ladies stand on an open marble surface…»
A favorite scroll on the east wall of my room. Two ladies stand on an open marble surface, and the mist of the April morning swirls at their silken feet; the verdure of the white-barked pines, almost black against the still white sky, clouds over the bright blue tiles of the small pavilion. Far in the distance, all sense of perspective lost in the subtleties of the mist, hang the curling cliffs of the mountains, without top or bottom, wrapped in the twisting and winding scarves of the April mist. 545. «In early spring, bright blossom liven…» In early spring, bright blossom liven the clay walls of Tung-Chow-fu. Around the ancient town of Tung-Chow-fu a great grey wall of brick and earth was built some centuries ago. A deep, wide moat was dug and filled with water. None but friends could enter through the barred and guarded gate. Now peace hangs sweetly over Tung-Chow-fu. The wall has crumbled down in many spots, and only kingfishers disturb the sleep of aged willow trees that, drooping, touch the lazy curling wavelets of the moat. All there is green and quiet. In the spring it is a joy to cross the stepping stones and climb the wall, and see the almonds bloom scarlet against the background of the grey. 546. «At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train…» Listening to the evening stillness at Wu-Chih-Mi. At Wu-Chih-Mi the little local train stops. I step off and breathe the summer warmth. At Wu-Chih-Mi there aren't many dwellings. It dozes lying in its quiet valley in summer twilight as the hills around it turn rose and violet and transparent blue before the night. I walk across the green and soundless meadow and soon I see the lanterns of the sky reveal their silken brilliance one by one. Alone I stand and listen to the stillness at Wu-Chih-Mi and watch the silver dipper above the northern hilltops as it tips to quench the thirsting of my day-parched soul with the beatitude of simple peace. вернуться Variant in the last, line of the second stanza in the manuscript: «that we reach out to grasp». вернуться With notation on the manuscript of the cycle «My China»: «Some time years ago, probably in the 60s.» |
