A Song of Chang Ching-Yuan: Picking Lotus Flowers

Essence of orchids in her tumbled hair, a goddess of
          spring.
She takes the swallow hairpin from her nape, lessons
          coiled tresses.
Under the willows by west gate, near the bridge at dusk,
Moated waters past doorways, dabbled, riffled flow.
A prince of rare talents, visitor to the imperial court,
Shell fittings on his saddle all a-jangle, crosses the
          spring lane.

Dancing effortlessly on an open palm, her sheer skirt,
Tailored green dress, best of the colors of spring.
Like wafting smoke embracing the moon, waist
          measure round.
Scent of musk and dragon marrow, how lovely,
          graceful she is.

Clouds like Autumn curtains brush the water --
         fragments of bright movement,
Dew-laden flowers in profusion, their fragrance
        stems.

One evening the west wind comes bringing showers,
 Searing, stripping bare the flowers, a melancholy pale
         red.
Boat prows sever lotus stems, but strands unseen hold
         fast,
For lotus roots, lotus seeds, preserve a mutual bond.
His heart is like the moon, a moon not yet on the wane,
Clear, bright and full in mid-month days.