Wind throng Pines
Hearing the wind and rain while mourning for the dead,
Sadly I draft an elegy on flowers.
Over dark green lane hang willow twigs like thread,
We parted before the bowers.
Each twig revealing
Our tender feeling.
I drown my grief in wine in chilly spring;
Drowsy, I wake again when orioles sing.
In West Garden I sweep the pathway
From day to day
Enjoying the fine view
Still without you.
On the ropes of the swing the wasps often alight
For fragrance spread by fingers fair.
I’m grieved not to see your foot traces, all night
The mossy steps are left untrodden there.
Key: Feng Ju Sung
Listening to the winds and rain on this Tomb Sweeping Day,
Even the grasses are sad for the Flower Epitaph.
The road in front of my house forks to two by the green shades,
– An inch of willow shoot, an inch of tender love.
On this chilly spring day, I had a cup too much of wine,
And in the dawn, the orioles broke my dream many a time.
I’m content to be a gardener in this West Garden,
And, as always, happy to see the sun after much rain.
Wasps are humming around the ropes of the swing,
For where her hands touched, the fragrance still stays.
It is so disappointing that you are not coming,
In the quiet night, mosses had crept onto the door steps.
Amid the noisy wind and rain the Clear-bright Festival has passed,
The lamenting grass provides the burial ground for the fallen flowers.
Before the chamber where we parted on the shady green path,
Every thread of willow is draped with a thread of my tender thought.
In the spring chill I am over-intoxicated with wine,
And the singing orioles rouse my dreams at dawn.
Daily in the West Garden I weed and sweep the terrace by the wood
To welcome the fair new day as before.
The wasps tap the swing rope time and again,
Where has clung the perfume of her slender hands.
To my disappointment the pair of teals come no more.
While on the secluded doorsteps moss grows overnight.
To the Tune of Fengrusong
Listening to the wind, to the rain,
the day of Qingming fleeing,
I try to write, like an earlier poet,
an ode to buried petals,
the garden trail forking
against the green-shaded bower,
a strand of willow shoot
for a stretch of passion, the spring
chill in a cup of wine, and the oriole
twittering in the morning dream.
Day after day,
I sweep the west garden,
the woods and pavilions,
appreciating, as before, the fresh view
after the rain. The bees keep
bumping against the swing
which seems to be redolent
of her fragrant hands then.
Alas, Mandarin ducks fail
to come, the secluded steps
become moss-covered overnight.
P’u – Feng Ju Sung
Wu Wen Ying
I hear the wind, I hear the rain as the Ch’ing Ming passes by.
Heaped under meagre grass dead blossoms lie.
Facing the house, deep leaf shadows the road where we said farewell:
A willow tendril waves
Each quivering inch responsively.
Lately, in spring’s cold mood, when wine had warmed my rest,
Half roused at dreaming dawn I heard the oriole cry.
Daily I sweep the cabin in the western garden trees.
The sun shines as of old and the golden bees
Fly unceasingly to and fro haunting the ropes on the swing
Which harbour from those days
Scent of soft hands, and memories.
That pair of Mandarin ducks, how sad they never came.
Moss on deserted steps has spread by night its fleece.
（Duncan Makintosh, Cheng Hsi 译）
Tune: “Feng Ru Song”
I spent my Tomb-Sweeping Day by listening to the wind and rain.
I was in no mood to draft an epigraph for flowers’ burying.
In front of the house, the road where
we parted looked dense and green.
One thread of willows equals to
one inch of tender feeling.
I drown myself in wine in the chill of spring.
In my morning dream, I could vaguely
hear orioles chattering.
I sweep the west garden every day.
I still enjoy the sunny day after the rain.
But the wasps keep dashing on
the ropes of the swing.
The fragrance that your tender fingers
left behind is responsible for their returning.
I lament that you can no longer be seen.
Did the moss on the steps grown in
the night prevent you from coming?