II. v. 10.: EVIL TIMES. With the fourth month cometh Summer, With the sixth its heats decline.— Are my sires§ no longer human, Feeling not for me and mine? Chilly grow the days of Autumn, Nature fading everywhere.— Sick of tumults and desertions,— Whither should one yet repair? Now the Winter days grow colder, And the storm-winds round us moan.— Ah, while all around are happy, Why am I distressed alone? On the heights the trees grow grandly, Chestnuts here, and plum-trees there.— Our high∥ places breed despoilers, Of their mischief none aware. [237] See the waters of the fountain, Turbid now, then crystalline.— Daily wedded to Misfortune, When shall I make Fortune mine? Han and Kiang are noble rivers, Regents of the Southern States!— Why do I now count for nothing, Whom long service enervates? I am not a hawk, an eagle, That may soar into the sky. Nor am I an eel or lamprey, In the deep to lurk and lie. Hills grow royal fern and bracken, Vales the medlar and the sloe.—* I, a great one, write these verses, Let them tell my tale of woe!
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Re: 204. 四月 - Si Yue
Date: 2021-04-20 03:26 am (UTC)With the fourth month cometh Summer,
With the sixth its heats decline.—
Are my sires§ no longer human,
Feeling not for me and mine?
Chilly grow the days of Autumn,
Nature fading everywhere.—
Sick of tumults and desertions,—
Whither should one yet repair?
Now the Winter days grow colder,
And the storm-winds round us moan.—
Ah, while all around are happy,
Why am I distressed alone?
On the heights the trees grow grandly,
Chestnuts here, and plum-trees there.—
Our high∥ places breed despoilers,
Of their mischief none aware.
[237]
See the waters of the fountain,
Turbid now, then crystalline.—
Daily wedded to Misfortune,
When shall I make Fortune mine?
Han and Kiang are noble rivers,
Regents of the Southern States!—
Why do I now count for nothing,
Whom long service enervates?
I am not a hawk, an eagle,
That may soar into the sky.
Nor am I an eel or lamprey,
In the deep to lurk and lie.
Hills grow royal fern and bracken,
Vales the medlar and the sloe.—*
I, a great one, write these verses,
Let them tell my tale of woe!
https://oll.libertyfund.org/title/confucius-the-shi-king-the-old-poetry-classic-of-the-chinese