I write the spell of solitude. Last night I wrote: 'We leave the blue mountains behind us, and go forward followed by the moon. Our sleeves grow heavy with dew. We turn to see how far we have come, but the country has been swallowed by a white mist.' Afterwards I grew lonely. I began thinking of my old home. I thought of the first poem I ever wrote when I was ten:
'Rain cannot quench thy lanterns light,
Wind makes it shine more brightly bright;
Oh, why not fly to heaven afar,
And twinkle near the moon—a star?'
I still think that is my greatest poem though I have scattered verses like leaves over half the mountains of China, for no poem has ever thrilled me as much or remained so firmly entrenched in my memory." "Though I am Emperor of All China, I would change places with you, Li Po," Ming Huang cried impul-sively. "When my reign ends, I will be forgotten but your fame will endure and grow until men in the unknown distances of the earth will breathe it in until it becomes part of them. They'll chant your songs to their children, sing them to the moon on a summer night, and in sleep they will sweeten their dreams."
Li Po was stirred by emotion as he said, "You are now called 'The Brilliant Emperor,' the ruler who recaptured poetry from oblivion. Henceforth this reign shall always be known as 'The Golden Age of China.' count myself blessed to be alive in such an era."
