No More Learning

I gather them, but who shall I send them to?
My love is living in lands far away.
I turn and look towards my own country:
The long road stretches on for ever.
The same heart, yet a different dwelling:
Always fretting, till we are grown old!

(7)

A bright moon illumines the night-prospect:
The house-cricket chirrups on the eastern wall.
The Handle of the Pole-star points to the Beginning of Winter.
The host of stars is scattered over the sky.

The white dew wets the moor-grasses,--
With sudden swiftness the times and seasons change.
The autumn cicada sings among the trees,
The swallows, alas, whither are they gone?

Once I had a same-house friend,
He took flight and rose high away.
He did not remember how once we went hand in hand,
But left me like footsteps behind one in the dust.

In the South is the Winnowing-fan and the Pole-star in the North,
And a Herd-boy[15] whose ox has never borne the yoke.
A friend who is not firm as a great rock
Is of no profit and idly bears the name.

[15] Name of a star. The Herd-boy, who is only figuratively speaking a
herd-boy, is like the friend who is no real friend.
(8)

In the courtyard there grows a strange tree,
Its green leaves ooze with a fragrant moisture.
Holding the branch I cut a flower from the tree,
Meaning to send it away to the person I love.
Its sweet smell fills my sleeves and lap.
The road is long, how shall I get it there?
Such a thing is not fine enough to send:
But it may remind him of the time that has past since he left. [16]

[16] _I. e. _ (supposing he went away in the autumn), remind him that
spring has come.

(9)

Far away twinkles the Herd-boy star;
Brightly shines the Lady of the Han River.
Slender, slender she plies her white fingers.
Click, click go the wheels of her spinning-loom.
At the end of the day she has not finished her task;
Her bitter tears fall like streaming rain.
The Han River runs shallow and clear;
Set between them, how short a space!
But the river water will not let them pass,
Gazing at each other but never able to speak.

(10)

Turning my chariot I yoke my horses and go.
On and on down the long roads
The autumn winds shake the hundred grasses.