Sunday, June 3, 2012
Nalan Xingde (1655-1685)
The mountain, a march;
The river, a march;
The the uplands and over the Yu Kuan Pass I go.
Countless lamps in the tented darkness glow.
A night-watch of wind,
A night-watch of snow -
And a clamor that shatters my sleepless home-sick heart.
I know a garden where it is not so.