Number 7
The old poems
(7)
A bright moon illumines the
night-prospect;
The house-cricket chirrups on the
eastern wall.
The Handle of the Pole-star points
to the Beginning of Winter;
The host of stars is scattered over
the sky.
The white dew wets the moor-grasses
–
With sudden swiftness the times and
seasons change.
The autumn cicada sings among the
trees,
The swallows, alas, whither are
they gone?
Once I had a same-house friend,
He took flight and rose high away.
He did not remember how once we
went hand in hand,
But left me like footsteps behind
one in the dust.
In the South is the Winnowing-fan
and the Pole-star in the north,
And a Herd-boy whose ox has never
borne the yoke.
A friend who is not firm as a great
rock
Is of no profit and idly bears the
name.
Anonymous
Translated by Arthur Waley
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