Chin Wha.
A windblown mist goes floating down the sky
And high above the forest swings the moon.
Between white clouds the Silver River flows,
Lapping soft ripples to the crystal doors
Which screen the Wide-Cool Palace from the world.
My spirit listens and my yearning eyes
Strain to discover things they may not see.
Go forth, my soul, and learn the fluted songs
Of those who pipe across the midnight sky,
Who ride from cloud to cloud on phoenix wings
And revel in the Palace of the Moon.
The gems that tinkle in their flowing robes
Are dewdrops shot with light from falling stars.
Ten thousand years ago they drank the wine
Of youth. It made them drunk with too much joy
And, being drunken, they forgot to die.
What are they singing? O that I might hear
One fluted note or catch one perfumed breath!
They toss their flowers across the bridge that spans
The Silver Stream. They light the Herdsman’s path.
Can I not gather even one lost bloom,
One pale green gem torn from a silken robe?