Li Qingzhao


To the Tune of Thinking of Maiden Chin

	I ascend high on the storied pavilion,
	Below, mountains scatter in disorder;
	   the uncutivated plain extends
	      far in the light mist.
 	In the light mist,
	Crows have returned to their nests;
	The evening horn is heard in the dusk.
	Burnt-out incense, left-over wine -
	   my mecancholy heart!
	The evening wind hastens
	   the wu t'ung leaves fall.
	The wu t'ung leaves fall,
	Again the autumn becomes beautiful,
	Again the heart is lonesome. Lucy Chow Ho