There reigns a heavy silence; gaunt weeds through windows pry,
And down the streets of Liang old echoes, wailing, die.
— * Strictly speaking, the pronunciation of all words such as Liang, Kiang, etc., is nearer one syllable than two. For purposes of euphony, however, without which the lines would be harsh and unpoetical, I have invariably made two syllables of them. —
Meng Hao-jan
A.D. 689-740
One of the few literary men of the day whose later life was devoted entirely to literature. He was the inseparable friend of the famous Buddhist poet and doctor, Wang Wei. He spent the first forty years of his life in acquiring knowledge, but having failed to obtain his doctor's degree, he returned to the quiet hills of his native province and dedicated his remaining years to composition. Most of his poems, other than certain political satire, which drew on him the Emperor's wrath, are full of subtle sadness and fragrant regret, reminding one of pot-pourri in some deep blue porcelain bowl.
The Lost One
The red gleam o'er the mountains
Goes wavering from sight,
And the quiet moon enhances
The loveliness of night.
I open wide my casement
To breathe the rain-cooled air.
And mingle with the moonlight
The dark waves of my hair.
The night wind tells me secrets
Of lotus lilies blue;
And hour by hour the willows
Shake down the chiming dew.
I fain would take the zither,
By some stray fancy led;
But there are none to hear me,
And who can charm the dead?