Butterflies Love Flowers

Warm Rains and gentle winds
Have broken through the chill.
Willow eyes and peach Buds
Press on toward the sun.

I long for someone here
To share this poetry and wine
But tears have streaked my rouge,
These silver phonix pins
grow heavy in my hair.

In a gold-embroidered gown,
I hurl myself onto a Mountain
Made of downy pillows
and crush my favourite pins.
I hold myself in tired arms
until even my dreams turn black-
first dark, then black.
Deep in the deepening night,
I trim the lamp's black wick.

Li Ch'ing-chao.
11th/12th century.