Reading a Poetry Scroll and Thinking of Lady Yang

Anon.

Remembering the stories told of her,

I turn the ghost leaves of a shadow book.

Each touch of her light hands, each drowsy look

From her camellia petal-shaded eyes,

Were like the butterflies

That float from character to character

All down this ancient poet’s painted scroll—

Which now on rods of ivory I roll,

And, wrapped in silken fragrance, lay aside.

So, silently remembering, I hide

Her name, inscribed on tablets of my soul.

Out of five thousand, not one character

Could tell her beauty nor my tears for her.