Ballad of the Western Island in the North Country

“Seeing the plum-tree I thought of the Western IslandAnd I plucked a branch to send to the North Country.I put on my dress of apricot-yellow silkAnd bound up my hair black as the crow’s wing.But which is the road that leads to the Western Island?I’ll ask the man at the ferry by the Bridge of Boats.But the sun is sinking and the orioles flying home:And the wind is blowing and sighing in the walnut-tree.I’ll stand under the tree just beside the gate:I’ll stand by the door and show off my enamelled hair-pins.”She’s opened the gate, but her lover has not come:She’s gone out at the gate to pluck red lotus.As she plucks the lotus on the southern dyke in autumn,The lotus flowers stand higher than a man’s head.She bends down--and plays with the lotus seeds,The lotus seeds are green like the lake-water.She gathers the flowers and puts them into her gown--The lotus-bud that is red all through.She thinks of her lover, her lover that does not come:She looks up and sees the wild geese flying--The Western Island is full of wild geese.To look for her lover she climbs the Blue Tower.The tower is high: she looks, but cannot see:All day she leans on the balcony rails.The rail is twisted into a twelve-fold pattern.She lets fall her hand white like the colour of jade.She rolls up the awning, she sees the wide sky,And the sea-water waving its vacant blue.“The sea shall carry my dreams far away,So that you shall be sorry at last for my sorrow.If the South wind--only knew my thoughtsIt would blow my dreams till they got to the Western Island.”