



Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.]





            CATHAY

            TRANSLATIONS BY

            EZRA POUND



            FOR THE MOST PART FROM THE CHINESE
            OF RIHAKU, FROM THE NOTES OF THE
            LATE ERNEST FENOLLOSA, AND
            THE DECIPHERINGS OF THE
            PROFESSORS MORI
            AND ARIGA


            LONDON

            ELKIN MATHEWS, CORK STREET

            MCMXV



    Rihaku flourished in the eighth century of our era. The
    Anglo-Saxon Seafarer is of about this period. The other
    poems from the Chinese are earlier.



    Song of the Bowmen of Shu

    Here we are, picking the first fern-shoots
    And saying: When shall we get back to our country?
    Here we are because we have the Ken-nin for our
        foemen,
    We have no comfort because of these Mongols.
    We grub the soft fern-shoots,
    When anyone says "Return," the others are full of
        sorrow.
    Sorrowful minds, sorrow is strong, we are hungry
        and thirsty.
    Our defence is not yet made sure, no one can let
        his friend return.
    We grub the old fern-stalks.
    We say: Will we be let to go back in October?
    There is no ease in royal affairs, we have no comfort.
    Our sorrow is bitter, but we would not return to our
       country.
    What flower has come into blossom?
    Whose chariot? The General's.
    Horses, his horses even, are tired. They were strong.
    We have no rest, three battles a month.
    By heaven, his horses are tired.
    The generals are on them, the soldiers are by them
    The horses are well trained, the generals have ivory
        arrows and quivers ornamented with fish-skin.
    The enemy is swift, we must be careful.
    When we set out, the willows were drooping with spring,
    We come back in the snow,
    We go slowly, we are hungry and thirsty,
    Our mind is full of sorrow, who will know of our grief?

                                    _By Kutsugen._
                                    _4th Century B.C._



    The Beautiful Toilet

    Blue, blue is the grass about the river
    And the willows have overfilled the close garden.
    And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth,
    White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.
    Slender, she puts forth a slender hand,

    And she was a courtezan in the old days,
    And she has married a sot,
    Who now goes drunkenly out
    And leaves her too much alone.

                                    _By Mei Sheng._
                                    _B.C. 140._




    The River Song


    This boat is of shato-wood, and its gunwales are cut
        magnolia,
    Musicians with jewelled flutes and with pipes of gold
    Fill full the sides in rows, and our wine
    Is rich for a thousand cups.
    We carry singing girls, drift with the drifting water,
    Yet Sennin needs
    A yellow stork for a charger, and all our seamen
    Would follow the white gulls or ride them.
    Kutsu's prose song
    Hangs with the sun and moon.

    King So's terraced palace
                           is now but a barren hill,
    But I draw pen on this barge
    Causing the five peaks to tremble,
    And I have joy in these words
                           like the joy of blue islands.
    (If glory could last forever
    Then the waters of Han would flow northward.)

    And I have moped in the Emperor's garden, awaiting
        an order-to-write!
    I looked at the dragon-pond, with its willow-coloured
        water
    Just reflecting the sky's tinge,
    And heard the five-score nightingales aimlessly singing.

    The eastern wind brings the green colour into the island
        grasses at Yei-shu,
    The purple house and the crimson are full of Spring
        softness.
    South of the pond the willow-tips are half-blue and
        bluer,
    Their cords tangle in mist, against the brocade-like
        palace.
    Vine-strings a hundred feet long hang down from carved
        railings,
    And high over the willows, the fine birds sing to each
        other, and listen,
    Crying--"Kwan, Kuan," for the early wind, and the feel
        of it.
    The wind bundles itself into a bluish cloud and wanders off.
    Over a thousand gates, over a thousand doors are the sounds
        of spring  singing,
    And the Emperor is at Ko.
    Five clouds hang aloft, bright on the purple sky,
    The imperial guards come forth from the golden house with
        their armour a-gleaming.
    The emperor in his jewelled car goes out to inspect his
        flowers,
    He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
    He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new nightingales,
    For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new