Meditation on a Summer Evening
Yi Whang.
I do forget so soon. Even tonight
My misted mind will turn and grope again,
Seeking some truth which sparkled for an hour
And then was lost. I gather up my books
And place them, one by one, within the chest.
The sun goes down. Long shadows dim my room
And shadows bridge the waters of the stream
That ripples softly past the outer court.
Sun-warmed and fragrant pine trees scent the breeze.
Pale clouds are one with distant mountain peaks.
Pungent the scent of smoke that slowly curls
Like pale blue feathers from the evening fire.
Heavy the millet hangs with ripening grain.
Soon will come reaping days and harvest joy
With sound of beating flails and singing lads.
Slowly between the trees, on lazy wing,
The gaunt crow homeward flies. The lovely crane
Stands out, a clear cut picture, by the stream.
How beautiful, how very kind this hour
Of gentle dusk and slowly deepening dreams!
Only, for me, the silences are filled
With broken memories. And there are tears
Which must not fall. They hover like a cloud
Always between me and the setting sun.
Yet I am silent. Words were never made
To tell such grief as mine. I touch my harp.
String after string calls through the silent night.