Chinese literature · Confucius
THE DECADE OF TOO JIN SZE
Though 'mong the indigo I've wrought The morning long; through anxious thought My skirt's filled but in part. Within five days he was to appear; The sixth has come and he's not here. Oh! how this racks my heart! When here we dwelt in union sweet, If the hunt called his eager feet, His bow I cased for him. Or if to fish he went away, And would be absent all the day, His line I put in trim. What in his angling did he catch? Well worth the time it was to watch How bream and tench he took. Men thronged upon the banks and gazed; At bream and tench they looked amazed, The triumphs of his hook. ~The Earl of Shaou's Work~ As the young millet, by the genial rain Enriched, shoots up luxuriant and tall, So, when we southward marched with toil and pain, The Earl of Shaou cheered and inspired us all. We pushed our barrows, and our burdens bore; We drove our wagons, and our oxen led. "The work once done, our labor there is o'er, And home we travel," to ourselves we said. Close kept our footmen round the chariot track; Our eager host in close battalions sped. "When once our work is done, then we go back, Our labor over," to themselves they said.
Hard was the work we had at Seay to do, But Shaou's great earl the city soon upreared. The host its service gave with ardor true;-- Such power in all the earl's commands appeared! We did on plains and low lands what was meet; We cleared the springs and streams, the land to drain. The Earl of Shaou announced his work complete, And the King's heart reposed, at rest again. ~The Plaint of King Yew's Forsaken Wife~ The fibres of the white-flowered rush Are with the white grass bound. So do the two together go, In closest union found. And thus should man and wife abide, The twain combined in one; But this bad man sends me away, And bids me dwell alone. Both rush and grass from the bright clouds The genial dew partake. Kind and impartial, nature's laws No odious difference make. But providence appears unkind; Events are often hard. This man, to principle untrue, Denies me his regard. Northward the pools their waters send, To flood each paddy field; So get the fields the sap they need, Their store of rice to yield. But that great man no deed of grace Deigns to bestow on me. My songs are sighs. At thought of him My heart aches wearily. The mulberry branches they collect, And use their food to cook; But I must use a furnace small, That pot nor pan will brook. So me that great man badly treats, Nor uses as his wife, Degrades me from my proper place, And fills with grief my life.
The bells and drums inside the court Men stand without and hear; So should the feelings in my breast, To him distinct appear. All-sorrowful, I think of him, Longing to move his love; But he vouchsafes no kind response; His thoughts far from me rove. The marabow stands on the dam, And to repletion feeds; The crane deep in the forest cries, Nor finds the food it needs. So in my room the concubine By the great man is placed; While I with cruel banishment Am cast out and disgraced. The yellow ducks sit on the dam, With left wing gathered low; So on each other do they lean, And their attachment show. And love should thus the man and wife In closest concord bind; But that man turns away from me, And shows a fickle mind. When one stands on a slab of stone, No higher than the ground, Nothing is added to his height;-- Low with the stone he's found. So does the favorite's mean estate Render that great man mean, While I by him, to distance sent, Am pierced with sorrow keen. ~Hospitality~ A few gourd leaves that waved about Cut down and boiled;--the feast how spare! But the good host his spirits takes, Pours out a cup, and proves them rare. A single rabbit on the mat, Or baked, or roast:--how small the feast! But the good host his spirits takes, And fills the cup of every guest.
A single rabbit on the mat, Roasted or broiled:--how poor the meal! But the guests from the spirit vase Fill their host's cup, and drink his weal. A single rabbit on the mat, Roasted or baked:--no feast we think! But from the spirit vase they take, Both host and guests, and joyous drink. ~On the Misery of Soldiers~ Yellow now is all the grass; All the days in marching pass. On the move is every man; Hard work, far and near, they plan. Black is every plant become; Every man is torn from home. Kept on foot, our state is sad;-- As if we no feelings had! Not rhinoceroses we! Tigers do we care to be? Fields like these so desolate Are to us a hateful fate. Long-tailed foxes pleased may hide 'Mong the grass, where they abide. We, in box carts slowly borne, On the great roads plod and mourn.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.