[33] PROSE LETTER TO YÜAN CHĒN
[A.D. 818]
Night of the tenth day of the fourth month. Lo-t'ien[1] says: O Wei-chih,[2] Wei-chih, it is three years since I saw your face and almost two years since I had a letter from you. Is man's life so long that he can afford such partings? Much less should hearts joined by glue be set in bodies remote as Hu and Yüeh.[3] In promotion we could not be together; and in failure we cannot forget each other. Snatched and wrenched apart, separately each of us grows grey. O Wei-chih, what is to be done? But this is the work of Heaven and there is no use in speaking of it.
When I first arrived at Hsün-yang, Hsiung Ju-tēng[4] came with the letter which you had written the year before, when you were so ill. First you told me of the progress of your illness, next of your feelings while you were ill and last you spoke of all our meetings and partings, and of the occasion of your own difficulties and dangers. You had no time to write more, but sent a bundle of your writings with a note attached, which said, "Later on I will send a message by Po Min-chung.[5] Ask him for news and that will do instead of a letter." Alas! Is it thus that Wei-chih treats me? But again, I read the poem you wrote when you heard I had been banished:
The lamp had almost spent its light: shadows filled the room,
