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A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916], at

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II. Sadness

The east wind has returned. The green of the
      grass renews and I know that spring is here.
Streams unbound awake into the dance of life.
Softly the weeping willow waves its long slim
What sorrow is there in its movement!

Light of the sky, most fair, most tender blue!
Air of the sea, sweet-scented, fresh, green-tinged!
Bright colours on the emerald, dreaming off into
      the distance in a half-seen veil—such was the
The little clouds hover lightly in the heights, each
      melting into the more radiant beyond.
Headlong waters are gathered in headlong streams.
My glance falls on the moss by the river-bend.
      How delicate and swift its movements in the
Gauze of the wandering threads whirled here and
      there, my spirit is minded to escape and whirl
      along with you.
O air and light! I am drunk with you! I am
      dazed—and I am plunged in sorrow.

One who has hearkened to the waters roaring
      down from the heights of Lung, and faint
      voices from the land of Ch‘in; one who has
      listened to the cries of monkeys on the shores

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      of the Yang-tse-Kiang, and the songs of the
      land of Pa; that renowned beauty Wang
      Chao-Chün, who saw before her the last
      jasper gate of her native land; that renowned
      Ch‘u poet singing the glories of the tinted
      maple wood—ah! these knew sorrow.
And if I ascend, and, mindful of them, look out
      across the blue horizon, I feel the keen pang
      of grief that, piercing through me, finds my

The soul of man swells like a wave at the coming
      of spring.
But there is also the sadness of spring-time, which,
      like falling snow, distracts us.
Both sorrow and joy throbbing and pulsing—a
      countless crowd of feelings are stirred and
      mingle together in this festival of perfume.
What if I have a friend far away on the shores of
      the Hsiang! Clouds part us and hide us
      from each other.
Upon a little wave I shed the tears of separation,
      and—little wave going eastward, take to
      my friend my soul-felt love.
Oh! that I could grasp this golden light of
      spring, keep it and horde it—a treasure-trove
      of days for my fairest far-off friend.

Next: III. Sorrow