• 《花本快活》 The gaiety of flowers
Flowers in themselves are gay: from the moon advenes their sorrow.
O Moon! Dost thou so pity fragrance? And wilt thou take away my life?
Methinks that spring-love’s tryst is often mistimed: occasion is not so ready to hand.
I have made a covenant with my lover that he should bide my coming in the mid-decad of each month.
O Moon! Art thou so full of passion? And fearest thou that we playthings of rouge and powder will never wive?
When thou, O Moon, art round, we flowers die: how many past lives (say you) have we spent unsanctified?
O Moon! In the year’s four seasons, how many are the friends who pity our fragrance?
What fresh and dainty floweret but loves the moon to steal its perfume?
Sometimes, when fragrance wakens from her dream, the moon is still bright as the noonday.
Yet whoso laments fragrance in face of her shadow, feels but more easily the sad influence of autumn.
Would that thou, O Moon, night after night wert always round, and that flowers once full blown never passed away!
Ah! I know not whether the evergreen is true or sham emblem of our passion.
But, if true, then all is well. Myself would fain, life after life, be a flower planted in the moon.