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The forest bird cries; “No; ah no! Songs can never be taught。”
The cage bird says; “Alas for me; I know not the songs of the woodlands。”
Their love is intense with longing; but they never can fly wing to wing。
Through the bars of the cage they look; and vain is their wish to know each other。
They flutter their wings in yearning; and sing; “e closer; my love!”
The free bird cries; “It cannot be; I fear the closed doors of the cage。”
The cage bird whispers; “Alas; my wings are powerless and dead。”
园丁集 第九章(1)
The Gardener 7
O mother; the young Prince is to pass by our door;—how can I attend to my work this morning?
Show me how to braid up my hair; tell me what garment to put on。
Why do you look at me amazed; mother?
I know well he will not glance up once at my window; I know he will pass out of my sight in the twinkling of an eye; only the vanishing strain of the flute will e sobbing to me from afar。
But the young Prince will pass by our door; and I will put on my best for the moment。
O mother; the young Prince did pass by our door; and the morning sun flashed from his chariot。
I swept aside the veil from my face; I tore the ruby chain from my neck and flung it in his path。
Why do you look at me amazed; mother?
I know well he did not pick up my chain; I know it was crushed under his wheels leaving a red stain upon the dust; and no one knows what my gift was nor to whom。
But the young Prince did pass by our door; and I flung the jewel from my breast before his path。
The Gardener 8
When the lamp went out by my bed I woke up with the early birds。
I sat at my open window with a fresh wreath on my loose hair。
The young traveller came along the road in the rosy mist of the morning。
A pearl chain was on his neck; and the sun’s rays fell on his crown。
He stopped before my door and asked me with an eager cry; “Where is she?”
For very shame I could not say; “She is I; young traveller; she is I。”
It was dusk and the lamp was not lit。
I was listlessly braiding my hair。
The young traveller came on his chariot in the glow of the setting sun。
His horses were foaming at the mouth; and there was dust on his garment。
He alighted at my door and asked in a tired voice;“Where is she?”
For very shame I could not say; “She is I; weary traveller; she is I。”
It is an April night。 The lamp is burning in my room。
The breeze of the south es gently。 The noisy parrot sleeps in its cage。
My bodice is of the colour of the peacock’s throat; and my mantle is green as young grass。
I sit upon the floor at the window watching the deserted street。
Through the dark night I keep humming; “She is I; despairing traveller; she is I。”
The Gardener 9
When I go alone at night to my love…tryst; birds do not sing; the wind does not stir; the houses on both sides of the street stand silent。
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am ashamed。
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