I do not like to remember things any more.

I like one little band of winds that blow

In the ash trees here:

For we are quite alone,

Here mid the ash trees.

THE RIVER-MERCHANT’S WIFE: A LETTER

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead

I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.

You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse;

You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.