The Good Book_ A Secular Bible - A. C. Grayling [80]
Nor the rose your beauty;
My desire’s habitation is the curve of your eyebrow,
No king has quarters such as that.
What will the sighs of my heart do,
If like breath on a mirror they cloud your face?
I fear the narcissus: that your black-hearted eyes
Will gaze on no one but yourself, unashamed.
Bring me a heavy pitcher of wine;
I cannot speak for those who have not crossed this threshold,
Who have not washed their sleeves in their heart’s blood,
And suffered this transgression of love.
2
Thick grow the green rush leaves,
The dewfall on them turns to frost:
My love is somewhere on this stream –
I went up-river to seek him,
But the way was hard and long.
I went down-river to seek him,
And there in mid-water he was:
Even he!
Close grow the green rush leaves,
Their white dew not yet dry.
My love is at the water’s side –
Upstream I sought him,
But the way was long and hard,
Downstream I sought him,
And there on a mid-water ledge
I saw him:
Even he!
3
Hear the deer call,
Nibbling the black southernwood of the fields.
A lucky guest has visited me:
Let me play my zither, blow my reed-organ,
Take up the basket of gifts and offerings.
Here is one who loves me,
And will teach me the way of the land.
Hear the deer call,
Nibbling the white southernwood of the fields.
I have a lucky guest, whose name is bright:
He is a pattern to the people.
Take up the good wine and the bread:
Let us feast our guest to comfort him,
And gladden his heart with music.
Hear the deer call,
Nibbling the wild garlic of the fields.
I bring good wine and bread
To comfort my guest who brings such fortune;
I play my zither, and blow the reed-organ,
To delight his heart with music.
4
We plucked the bracken while the shoots were soft:
Oh to go back, to go back!
Our hearts are sad, our sad hearts burn:
And no news comes from home.
What splendid thing is that?
It is the flower of the cherry tree:
It is the plume on the chariot of the chief,
The war-chariot ready yoked
With its four eager steeds.
We long to go back, to go back,
But the campaign is not over,
And no news comes from home.
We yoke the teams of four,
We ready the ivory bow-ends,
The fish-skin quivers:
The enemy is swift and strong;
How should we dare to tarry?
Long ago, when we started,
The willows spread their shade.
Now as we go on
The snowflakes fly.
Our march is long, we thirst, we hunger:
Our hearts are stricken with sorrow:
But no one listens when we cry
‘To go back, to go back!
Our hearts burn with sadness.’
And no news comes from home.
5
I wake, and hasten to the window,
Expecting to see the first green buds of spring;
But find that the rains of autumn have already begun.
When did the years pass,
That I did not notice?
When did spring become autumn,
Whose rain falls at my window,
When I rose with hope to see
The first green buds of spring?
6
A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;
I drink alone, for no friend is near.
Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,
For he, with my shadow, will make three.
The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine;
Listless, my shadow creeps at my side.
Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave
I must make merry before night is spent.
Hearing my songs, the moon flickers her beams;
In the dance I weave, my shadow tangles and breaks.
While we were sober, three shared the fun;
Now we are drunk, each goes his own way.
May we long share our odd midnight feasts,
And meet at last on the cloudy river of the sky.
7
My friend is lodging high in the Eastern Hills,
Loving the beauty of valleys and tree-clad slopes.
In summer he lies in the empty woods,
And is still asleep when the sun pours warmth on them.
A pine-tree wind dusts his sleeves and coat;
A pebbled stream cleans his heart and thoughts.
I envy you, who far from strife and talk
Are high-propped on a pillow of blue cloud.
Here the fields are chill; the sparse rain has stopped;
The colours of nature teem on every side.
With leaping fish the blue pond is full;
With singing