But the rest of the composition was next considered. Its text was:
The fairy in Selene's cavity donneth a plain attire.
The maiden, plunged in autumn grief, dries in her room the prints of
tears.
Winsome she blushes, in silence she's plunged, with none a word she
breathes;
But wearily she leans against the eastern breeze, though dusk has long
since fall'n.
"This stanza ranks above all!" they unanimously remarked, after it had been read for their benefit.
"As regards beauty of thought and originality, this stanza certainly deserves credit," Li Wan asserted; "but as regards pregnancy and simplicity of language, it, after all, yields to that of Heng Wu."
"This criticism is right." T'an Ch'un put in. "That of the Hsiao Hsiang consort must take second place."
"Yours, gentleman of I Hung," Li Wan pursued, "is the last of the lot.
Do you agreeably submit to this verdict?"
"My stanza," Pao-yü ventured, "isn't really worth a straw. Your criticism is exceedingly fair. But," he smilingly added, "the two poems, written by Heng Wu and Hsiao Hsiang, have still to be discussed."
"You should," argued Li Wan, "fall in with my judgment; this is no business of any of you, so whoever says anything more will have to pay a penalty."
Pao-yü at this reply found that he had no alternative but to drop the subject.
"I decide that from henceforward," Li Wan proceeded, "we should hold meetings twice every month, on the second and sixteenth. In the selection of themes and the settlement of the rhymes, you'll all have then to do as I wish. But any person who may, during the intervals, feel so disposed, will be at perfect liberty to choose another day for an extra meeting. What will I care if there's a meeting every day of the moon? It will be no concern of mine, so long as when the second and sixteenth arrive, you do, as you're bound to, and come over to my place."