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
While birds of the air to their nestlings
But I a poor orphan must ever remain,
My heart, still so young, overburdened
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
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
Liu Heng. Died B.C. I57