PO CHU-I
The soldiers refuse to advance;
nothing remains to be done Until she of the moth-eyebrows
perishes in sight of all. On the ground lie gold ornaments
with no one to pick them up, Kingfisher wings, golden birds,
and hairpins of costly jade. The monarch covers his face,
powerless to save; And as he turns to look back,
tears and blood flow mingled together.
EXILE. Across vast stretches of yellow sand
with whistling winds, Across cloud-capped mountain-tops
they make their way. Few indeed are the travellers
who reach the heights of Mount Omi; The bright gleam of the standards
grows fainter day by day. Dark the Ssiich uan waters,
dark the Ssuch'uan hills j Daily and nightly his Majesty
is consumed by bitter grief. Travelling along, the very brightness
of the moon saddens his heart, And the sound of a bell through the evening rain
severs his viscera in twain.
RETURN. Time passes, days goby, and once again
he is there at the well-known sflot, And there he lingers on, unable
to tear himself wholly away. But from the clods of earth
at the foot of the Ma-wei hill, No sign of her lovely face appears,
only the place of death. The eyes of sovereign and minister meet,
and robes are wet with tears t Eastward they depart and hurry on
to the capital at full speed.
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