Wang Wei Praises the River Wings-of-a-Kingfisher

Wang Wei Praises the River Wings-of-a-Kingfisher

I never go down the Yellow-Chrysanthemum River
   But rocked in my boat on Wings-of-a-Kingfisher Stream
That winds between silent and people-less peaks forever
   Mirroring cloud-high bluffs where the pine-woods dream.
I trust I may never go down to the beautiful river
   But by secretly-winding Wings-of-a-Kingfisher Stream.

Through a murmurous recitative and continual pondering
   Stone-broken jargon of many-voiced waters I go;
Boat-borne, through mazy leagues in the wilderness wandering,
   By shadowy reaches where the water-chestnuts grow;
And always, from near or far, aware of the pondering
   Stone-broken jargon and recitative as I row.

I never go down to Yellow-Chrysanthemum River
   Through the still, deep reaches where greenly the reeds are glassed,
But the morning glows, and my heart and the ripples quiver
   With the peace that will dawn when the lives of the stars are passed.
I never go worshipping down to the beautiful river,
   But I know the Eternal broods where the reeds are glassed.

The Theosophical Path, November 1929

Lament of the Ladies of the Siang River

Lament of the Ladies of the Siang River

After Yuen I-Shan

Sweet-scented are the Kiu-e Mountains, where the white bright spring clouds fly
Over the blooms of roses and orchids that the south wind bloweth by
Shaking down the gentle petals, the bloom dust, the bloom perfume
                        In the garden about the tomb.
While a thousand springtimes pass there shall be bloom there, there shall be bloom!

Dark, dark are the Kiu-e Mountains, that the autumn clouds drift over
When the mist creeps up the river like the ghost of a dead lover,
And the pallid moonlight filters down o’er naked woodland and wan stream,
                        And fitfully the pale stars gleam,
While a thousand autumns pass, sleep shall be there,—sleep and dream!

Mournful, mournful are the Kiu-e Mountains! all night long the gibbons cry,
And the wind wails o’er the desolate garden under the rainy moonless sky,
And tears drop from the bamboo branches, and tears drop from the sodden fern,
                        And the river and the mountains mourn:—
While a thousand autumns pass our Lord shall not return!

The Theosophical Path, April 1927