by Li Ch'ing-chao （Translated by Arthur Sze）

    When night comes，

    I am so flushed with wine，

    I undo¹ my hair slowly：

    a plum calyx is

    stuck on a damaged branch.

    I wake dazed when smoke

    breaks my spring sleep.

    The dream distant，

    so very distant；

    and it is quiet， so very quiet.

    The moon spins and spins.

    The kingfisher blinds are drawn²；

    and yet I rub the injured bud，

    and yet I twist in my fingers this fragrance³，

    and yet I possess these moments of time！

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