The tree says:
“Lovely lady, I never did you harm;
Why should you hate me and do me injury?”
The lady answers:
“At high autumn in the eighth and ninth moons
When the white dew changes to hoar-frost,
At the year’s end the wind would have lashed your boughs,
Your sweet fragrance could not have lasted long.
Though in the autumn your leaves patter to the ground,
When spring comes, your gay bloom returns.
But in men’s lives when their bright youth is spent
Joy and love never come back again.”
CHAPTER II
SATIRE ON PAYING CALLS IN AUGUST
By Ch’ēng Hsiao (circa A.D. 250)
When I was young, throughout the hot season
There were no carriages driving about the roads.
People shut their doors and lay down in the cool:
Or if they went out, it was not to pay calls.
Nowadays—ill-bred, ignorant fellows,
When they feel the heat, make for a friend’s house.
The unfortunate host, when he hears someone coming
Scowls and frowns, but can think of no escape.
“There’s nothing for it but to rise and go to the door,”
And in his comfortable seat he groans and sighs.