On The Death Of His Father

I look up, the curtains are there as of yore;

I look down, and there is the mat on the


These things I behold, but the man is no


To the infinite azure his spirit has flown,

And I am left friendless, uncared-for, alone,

Of solace bereft, save to weep and to moan.

The deer on the hillside caressingly bleat,

And offer the grass for their young ones

to eat,

While birds of the air to their nestlings

bring meat.

But I a poor orphan must ever remain,

My heart, still so young, overburdened

with pain

For him I shall never set eyes on again.

‘Tis a well-worn old saying, which all men


That grief stamps the deepest of lines on

the brow:

Alas for my hair, it is silvery now !

Alas for my father, cut off in his pride !

Alas that no more I may stand by his side!

Oh where were the gods when that great

hero died?

Liu Heng. Died B.C. I57

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