Bamboo-and-orange Poem

Bamboo-and-orange Poem

After Li Po

Whilst I sit by my window here
A breeze all sweet with orange-bloom,
Blowing by me, fills the room,
And I hear orange-venders near
Crying their wares, and see the glow
Of gold globed fruit on the trees below;
And take my brush and ink, and clear
On the white paper page let fall
Glyphs like orange-blooms,—and all,
Fall’n, become scent, bloom, trees, fruit, call
Of orange-venders where they go,—
A poem the ends of the earth shall know.

And whilst I sit by the window here,
I watch the bamboos sway to and fro,
And hear their swish and whispers low
Like gray raindrops drifting drear,
Or a far stream o’er mountain stones,
Or a far scythe the reaper hones;
And take my brush and ink, and strew
Glyphs like sprigs of young bamboo,
That by some witchcraft echo again
Bamboo-sounds,—scythe, stream, drift of rain;
And when the page is covered, lo,
A poem a thousand years shall hear!

And time shall lay the bamboos by,
And bloom, fruit, scent, trees, groves shall go,
And they that cry the fruit shall die,
And I. . . .  But the poem has naught to fear.

The Theosophical Path, January 1924

Li Po Visits a Fallen Terrace on the Yangste Kiang

Li Po Visits a Fallen Terrace on the Yangste Kiang

Wild-grown willows hide away
The fallen terrace where, of old,
So many guests came, night and day,
With lutany and laughter gay,
Or hushed, to watch the rise of the Moon.

Down on the stream, now waning gold,
The water-chestnut gatherers sing
Till dim eve’s haunted with their song
Where the Great Kiang’s waves seaward are rolled.

But none else comes here, morn or noon,
And no one listens to their song;
And there’s no guest now, all night long,
In autumn time or bloom-mad spring,
But the Great Kiang and the yellow Moon.

The Theosophical Path, March 1930