ch is still known as
"Po's dam."

[47] WRITTEN WHEN GOVERNOR OF SOOCHOW

[_A.D. 825_]

A Government building, not my own home.
A Government garden, not my own trees.
But at Lo-yang I have a small house
And on Wei River I have built a thatched hut.
I am free from the ties of marrying and giving in marriage;
If I choose to retire, I have somewhere to end my days.
And though I have lingered long beyond my time,
To retire now would be better than not at all!

[48] GETTING UP EARLY ON A SPRING MORNING

[_Part of a poem written when Governor of Soochow in 825_]

The early light of the rising sun shines on the beams of my house;
The first banging of opened doors echoes like the roll of a drum.
The dog lies curled on the stone step, for the earth is wet with dew;
The birds come near to the window and chatter, telling that the day
is fine.
With the lingering fumes of yesterday's wine my head is still heavy;
With new doffing of winter clothes my body has grown light.

[49] LOSING A SLAVE-GIRL

[_Date uncertain_]

Around my garden the little wall is low;
In the bailiff's lodge the lists are seldom checked.
I am ashamed to think we were not always kind;
I regret your labours, that will never be repaid.
The caged bird owes no allegiance;
The wind-tossed flower does not cling to the tree.

* * * * *

Where to-night she lies none can give us news;
Nor any knows, save the bright watching moon.

[50] THE GRAND HOUSES AT LO-YANG

[_Circa A.D. 829_]

By woods and water, whose houses are these
With high gates and wide-stretching lands?
From their blue gables gilded fishes hang;
By their red pillars carven coursers run.
Their spring arbours, warm with caged mist;
Their autumn yards with locked moonlight cold.
To the stem of the pine-tree amber beads cling;
The bamboo-branches ooze ruby-drops.
Of lake and terrace who may the masters be?
Staff-officers, Councillors-of-State.
All their lives they have never come to see,
But know their houses only from the bailiff's map!

[51] THE CRANES

[_A.D. 830_]

The western wind has blown but a few days;
Yet the first leaf already flies from the bough.
On the drying paths I walk in my thin shoes;
In the first cold I have donned my quilted coat