There are times when our little courtyard
       ripples with infinite tenderness:
Winsome wisteria, bosom bared,
       invites the caress of persimmon leaves,
From his hundred-foot height the sophora
       stoops in the breeze to embrace the wild apple,
The yellow dog by the fence watches over
       his little friend Amber, fast asleep,
The birds sign their latest mating songs,
       trilling on without cease—
There are times when our little courtyard
       ripples with infinite tenderness.

There are times when our little courtyard
       shades in the setting of a dream:
Across the green shadows the haze after rain
       weaves a sealed and silent darkness,
Facing my fading orchids, a single squatting frog
       listens out for the cry of a worm in the next garden.
A weary raincloud, still unspent,
       stretches above the sophora’s top,
That circling flutter before the eaves—
       is it a bat or a dragonfly?
There are times when our little courtyard
       shades in the setting of a dream.

There are times when our little courtyard
       can only respond with a sigh:
A sigh for the times of storm,
       when countless red blossoms are pounded and pulped by the rain,
A sigh for the early autumn,
       when leaves still green fret free with regret from the branch,
A sigh for the still of night,
       when the moon has boarded her cloud-bark, over the west wall now,
And the wind carries a dirge for a passing,
       cold gusts from a distant lane—
There are times when our little courtyard
       can only respond with a sigh.

There are times when our little courtyard
       is inundated with joy:
In the dusk, after rain the garden
       is shaded, fragrant, and cool,
Old Pegleg, the toper, clutches his great jar,
       his bad leg pointing to the sky,
And drains his cup, a pint, a quart,
       till warmth of wine fills heart and cheeks,
A mythical Bacchus-figure,
       swept along on the bubbling of laughter—
There are times when our little courtyard
       is inundated with joy.

What exactly is this thing called love?
When it came I had not yet been born.
The sun shone for me for over twenty years,
I was only a child, knowing no sorrow at all.
Suddenly came the day—I loved and hated that day—
When in my heart something stirred; something was missing,
And that was the first time I felt this pain.
Some said it was a wound—now, you feel my chest—
When it came I had not yet been born,
What exactly is this thing called love?

From that time on I changed, a wild horse without a rein,
Galloping over the wilderness of humanity. I was
Like the Ch’u man of old who tried to offer his jade,
Who pointed at his heart and said, “There’s truth there, there is!
Cut me open here, if you don’t believe me, and see
If it isn’t a jade, this thing dripping blood.”
Blood! That merciless cutting, and my soul!
Who is he that forces me to ask this final question?

What a question! This time I’m glad my dream is over.
God, I’m not ill, no longer shall I groan before you.
No longer shall I long for the ethereal; I’ve no share in paradise;
I only want the earth, and to live plainly and honestly.
Never again shall I ask what exactly is this thing called love;
Since when it came I had not yet been born.

There are all ages and all trades on this bus:
Bearded men, unweaned babies, teenage boys, merchants, and soldiers.
There are all the poses, too: leaning, lying down,
Eyes open or closed, or staring out the window at darkness.

The wheels grind out refrains on the steel tracks;
No stars in the sky, not a lamp along the road,
Only the dim lights on the bus reveal the passengers—
Faces young and old, all fatigued.

Suddenly, from the darkest corner comes
A singing, sweet and clear, like a mountain spring, a bird at dawn,
Or the sky lighting up over the vast desert,
Golden rays spreading to distant ravines.

She is a little child, her voice released in joy.
On this shadowed journey, at this dim hour,
Like a swollen mountain spring or a morning bird in ecstasy,
She sings until the bus is filled with wondrous melody.

One by one the passengers fall under its spell;
By and by their faces glow with delight.
Merchants, officers, the old and the young alike—
Even the sucking baby opens its eyes.

She sings and sings until the journey is brightened,
Until the fair moon and the stars come out from behind the clouds,
Until flowers on branches, like colored lanterns, vie in beauty,
And the slender grass rocks light-footed fireflies.