Li Qingzhao


To the Tune of Rinsing Silk Stream

	My courtyard is small, windows idle,
	   spring is getting old.

	Screens unrolled cast heavy shadows.

	In my upper-story chamber, speechless,
	   I play on my jasper lute.

	Clouds rising from distant mountains
	   hasten the fall of dusk.

	Gentle wind and drizzling rain
	   cause a pervading gloom.

	Pear blossoms can hardly keep from withering,
	   but droop. Lucy Chow Ho