Li Qingzhao


To the Tune of Rinsing Silk Stream

	Saddened by the dying spring, I am too weary
	   to rearrange my hair.

	Plum flowers, newly fallen, drift about the courtyard
	   in the evening wind.

	The moon looks pale and light clouds float
	   to and fro.

	Incense lies idle in the jade duck-shaped burner.

	The cherry-red bed-curtain is drawn close,
	   concealing its tassels.

	Can tung-hsi horn still ward off the cold?* Lucy Chow Ho