Oo T’ak. (1262—1342 A.D.)
One year I spent there in my distant youth.
Now, growing old, my faltering brush recalls
The brimming wells and forests of the south;
The green mist of the willow tree that falls
On mirror pools where feathered grasses wave
Above the shallow river’s yellow sand,
And still white clouds the smooth blue water pave
With blocks of marble made in fairyland.
Soft is the southern rain, a silver wing
Brushing the ivy on a painted wall.
Softly the voices in the rice field sing,
Till from the dusk brocaded curtains fall
To part before a moon of ivory.
Along the river like a shadow craft,
Made from the green mist of a willow tree,
Drifts slowly to the shore a woodman’s raft.