Do not speak of death. The word blisters the air, though your lips be as two drops of June rain.
Wong Fe
But how sweet to die when I am fairest in your eyes! Every year, at this time, you would walk down the peach-flower lanes and recall the glow of my cheek. Oh, Heaven, let me not be a faded wife in the blooming time of the year!
Shun
Thy soul, Wong Fe, is the flower of my worship.
Wong Fe
And death would give my soul wholly to you. I should be near you always. Then morning would not call you to the peaks, leaving me behind in the tear-dew.
Shun
To-morrow we shall go together. Your shadow will be with mine on the rocks, and under the fir-trees we shall forget the valley.
Wong Fe