Li Qingzhao


To the Tune of Rinsing Silk Stream

	The Cold Food Festival,
	  a quiet and peaceful spring day.

	From the jade burner rises the up-curling smoke
	   of the dying incense.

	Dreams cam back to me as I slumbered
	   on the hill-shaped pillow which concealed
	      my hairpins with flowery ornaments.

	Sea swallows have not returned;
	   people amuse themselves with the game
	      of vying green herbs.

	Plum blooms are withered, willows bear catkins;

	Twilight falls, light drops of rain
	   Wet the swing in the garden. Lucy Chow Ho