Liu Tzu-Hui: Listening to the Harp

Night and the midway moon. Some hidden lute Sounds from a silken alcove. As the wind Swells and recedes the lutany now swells, Now falters. Now commingled with the clouds It throbs betwixt the earth and moon. Almost Like gentle mockery the echoes fall As laughter breaks on tears. The hand that sways The crowded chords I see not, but the heart Made visible by music far away Spells me her dreams. Ah! mourns she not the tryst New made and newly broken, but the old Lost love of long ago. Her melodies Are secret sorrows welling through the lute— Are captive nightingales escaped in song. p. 78 One touch of the chords, and snow-flakes scatter round One, and the flowing brightness of the sun Passes. Perchance she grieves that few may hear And understand. The floating dust collects Beneath her silver nail-tips. Lone is she As orphan phœnix calling, with whose plaint The songs of all birds fail to harmonise.