Section 1 of the Jade Flute. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Frédéric Surger. The Jade Flute by various Chinese parts. Contentment by Li Po. When you ask why I dwell here at the side among the far green hills, I laugh in my heart. My heart is happy. The peach blossom watches the river running, but remains content. There is a better heaven and earth than the busy world of men. I have seen a road by Anonymous. I have seen a road that wanders in green shade that runs through sweet fields of flowers. My eyes have travelled there and journeyed far along that cool fine road. But I will never really walk that road. It does not really lead to where she lives. When she was born, they bound her little feet with leather bands. My beloved never walks the road of shade and flowers. When she was born, they bound her little heart with leather bands. My beloved never listens to my song. Floating Narcissus by One Tzu. Faded Narcissus floating down the river to Tianhuang. If you see there a young girl dreaming under a cinnamon tree that has blossomed twice since we embraced, tell her. I smell a fresh combination to remember her perfume. The Friends by Li Po. You rode a yellow horse. I rode a white one. Horses to colors that our boyish hearts wear one. We rode together through the country. A pair of prancing peacocks. I was jewelled long sword shining in the sun. Our tall headdresses colored and a precious furs worth thousands. We were guests of all five orders of nobility. Now my fierce tiger friend has crashed into a trap. It is fine to face fate nubbly. But if my brave comrade is in danger, what pleasure can I find in being free and happy? A Neglected Wife by Mei Chang. A window opens and a beautiful woman looks out. Her eyes are wet as she looks at grass turning green before her house, as willows in new leaf along the river. In time's past when she looked out she sang. When you own a treasure you must know how to keep it, my friend. Those has two beautiful legs. Be careful or it will run away. The Part Under Dancers by Chang Woon Cheen. Here day and night the prettiest women of the empire are dancing. Songs and laughter echo from the golden screens. When all the others are overcome with drinking I put down my wine. I take my brush, I wet the golden ink, and I write sad poems with swaying characters that look like these rosy bodies strewn on a marble floor. I Will Be Alone by Tu Fu. This lake at Quen Ming, how wondrous it was in the days of Han.  Now it is only a bare mirror at night for the spinning boy, that star boy who does not flee from cold. Black seed pods from the coomie blow on it now. There are lilies and lotus flowers too, but soon the north wind will reap away their leaves, and I will be alone with my unhappiness. Remember to Wear Them by Chang Woon Chee. A shadow on the window screen. Who comes gathering my flowers? She may pick them if she will, but what will she do with them? The best praise are there beneath the eaves, pick more of these, and remember you who gather flowers wear them in your air. Wild geese by Anonymous. Far in the northwest stands a house, high its tower in the clouds, and broidered curtains are at the windows. The tower rises in three steps, and from the tower floats a song, a sad song with a sad lieu playing beside it. Who can the singer be? Surely it is she who has no husband left to her, no father left, no child. Her song follows the wind, it rises and falls with a singing, subbing. Grief is victor of her strong will. She does not sorrow that her life is sad, but that so few can understand the sorrow in her song. Oh, to fly like those two wild geese rising with beating wings. Contentment by Lipo. Lazily waving a white-feathered fan, I lie naked. A green dale in the mountains. I hang my hat on a jutting rock. I cool my head with piney air. To the Emperor. By the Emperor's favourite, Pantai Tsu. With this I send a mirror. It is pure round, and it is clear white, to remind you of the moon we gazed at when we were lost together in the garden. May it always stay with you, and may its tears sweet memories. But I know, by autumn you will cast it aside for something new, as you have cast aside its loving-sender. When the Swallows returned, by Tsing Chi Chi. When the Swallows returned last year, they made a nest in the embroidery room. They gathered clay from the flower garden, and scattered dust over harp and books. When the Swallows returned this year, no one heard their twittering speech. She who had rolled up the screen for them was there no more. In the amber twilight, a soft pattering rain. The world around us, by Lipo. Dread, Lord, do not wave your scepter. It is betrothed. Dear Dancer, do not wail your scars. They are orchid-flowered. Pale poet, do not flound your heart. It is radiant with love. Our world cares only for unenchanted things. Youngers of old by Wang Chang Ling. In a tiny grove with flowers everywhere, young girls of days gone by sit looking in the mirrors. They say, sometimes we think that we have grown old, that our air is white, and our eyes no longer clear as the new moon. But it is not true. Our mirrors are bewitched with winter, and they lie. It is the mirrors that make our air like snow and wrinkle our young faces. But wicked winter can bewitch our mirrors only, not ourselves. Forever, we are unchanged. The miniature pavilion, a Lipo. Here is the little lake. Here the little pavilion of white porcelain. The tiny jade bridge curves. The back of a crutching lion. Boon companions gather in the miniature hall. They chatter and drink wine. They stare at the flickering reflections of peonies that line the bank. Some of the companions, long-sleeves, post-back, caps low of the eyes, are writing poems. The arc of the bridge is a crescent moon, the reflected peonies, a company of dancing girls. End of section one, read by Frédéric Surge. Section two of the Jade Flute. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Frédéric Surge. Picking the lotus by Lipo. The harvest moon is burning the waters of South Lake. Drifting alone, I lean down to pick white lotus lilies. Fear's desire pulls me. I yearn to tell them of my passion. Alas, my boat floats away at mercy of the moving current. My heart looks back in sadness. A Fruit at Night by Lee Yee. Here on the far southern border, the sand below the mountain lies like a field of snow. The moonlight's black frost along the city wall. Someone, somewhere, playing on his flute, has made the northern soldiers homesick or light long. Watching and wondering by Tien Tien. High in a hill, looking down on a windy lake, see, a little rocking boat stormed task like a life together. Now mist has hidden boat and journey. Other than mist, the sun sets far off in heaven. On the hills of red, filled, holder on lake a blue with shadow. Now, islands in the lake are black with pearls, set in amethyst. Now, that wooded hill, the head of waving woman's hair, is black and see, the crescent comb of silver moon. Sad and happy, I pick up my loot and sing until the stars grow pale. Best happiness of all, by one way. I am old and I am bored. I was never very wise and my mind has never walked much further than my feet on the my forest, my forest. I go back and back to wander there. There blue fingers of the moon still play on my old loot. There, wind scatters clouds and comes down to flutter my robe. You asked me what is the best happiness of all. In the forest, it is sweet to hear a girl singing on the path, after she has stopped to ask her way and thanked you with a smile. The blue robe, by two foo. Bring me no more flowers, bring me only suprath bough to shroud my face. After sunset in the mountains, I will put on my blue robe with long sleeves and go out to sleep among the bamboos that she loved. The ashes of my house by two foo. When I returned to the house where I had been a happy child, only a pile of ashes where it had sued. I wept long and to forget my weaving, I sailed out on the vast calm sea, on these waters in a star sapphire night. I played my flute to the summer moon. My grief, my melody. But the moon, a woman's face, soon veiled itself with cloud. I sailed back to shore. I walked away from the waters to the friendly forest. There the trees too turned away from me. I knew then happiness was burnt forever under a pile of ashes. Running back to the sea, I decided to drone myself, but a white boat sailed along to shore. A young girl was sailing it. Oh, you who smiled at me that day when I was suffering. Oh, you who rescued me from grief. I will build again the happy house of my childhood in your heart. The Maiden Lofo by Anonymous Going to gather leaves, Lofo puts up her gleaming hair. She puts a pearl in each pearl ear. She wears a dress of pink and dress of yellow. Her basket bears a little twist of silk. On the south road, the governor of the province calls to his men to stub the horses. Ask that pretty one her name, find out her age for me. Said Lofo, in the countryside of Tsin there lives a girl named Lofo. She is not twenty yet, but neither is she a child, for she has past sixteen. The governor hesitates. Ask the lovely maiden if she wishes to come with me in my chariot.  Surely the governor has a wife in the south he loves. So, even in Tsin, the maid Lofo has her young man whom she has promised whom she loves. Looking into mist by Li Yihang. The ashes light chill and gray in the golden brazier. My coverlets roll in red ways as toss in my bed.  They float down like waves on the floor, but I have no strength to rise and brush out my long air. Even the jade comb is too heavy for my hand. Let the dust settle on my dressing table, dulling my gleaming bottles. Now the sun begins to glitter through my curtains. Its rising will cast bitter shadows of sorrow in my heart. I wish to speak. I want to cry out. But from my throat I crush back my cries into my heart. This is new for me. Pain which comes not from too much wine, nor from the sadness of approaching autumn. No. It is over now and finished. Today he goes away, even if I sung the sweet stay-by-me song to him ten thousand times. He would not stay. My thoughts must travel the long road to the thou's country. His country very far away. See the mist around my pavilion. Before my eyes there is mist all about. It is the image of my sadness, the reflection of my dull, still eyes. Forever will my dull eyes tear to pale mist. My eyes that never will light up again. The willow leaf by Chan-Tiu Lin. That maiden dreaming at her window ledge, leaning on her soft white arms. I do not love her for her great mansion on the shore of the Yellow River. I love her because she has let full floating down into the stream a little willow leaf. I do not love the east wind because it carries to me the scent of those peach trees that are like snow under mountains. I love it because it has carried the little willow leaf to my boat. And the little willow leaf. I do not love it because it reminds me that soft string has come again. I love it because the dreaming maiden has picked a name on it with a needle and because that name is mine. And a happy time by Chu Yong. The hours pass. The phoenix flies and flies from home. Starlings and sparrows build the nest in the altar of our ancestral hall. Magnolias reach out their tendrils. The jungle seizes them. The perish and tangled.  The evil principle has dispossessed the good. This is the time of badness. Loyal but in despair I begin my journeys of exile. The shadow of a leaf by Ting Tong Ling. Alone in her room a girl embroidered silken flowers. She hears a flute of thought she shivers. Dreaming a young man is singing to her of his love. From the sunlight slanting through the paper window the shadow of an orange leaf falls on a breast. She closes her eyes. Dreaming a young man's hand is opening a rope. A loyal wife by Chang Ti. Your lordship, I am grateful for the two pairs you are for me but I trample with uncertainty what I say. I say to you I am married and have sworn to be faithful to my husband. Perhaps you do not know that the colors of my family hang in the royal park. Perhaps you do not know that my husband is honorary lancer in the palace. I think you are sincere. I think you are honorable therefore I have put your pearls against my robe and I have looked at them and smiled but take them now again. Perhaps you will take these two tears as well. Ah why did I not know you three years ago this spring. The emperor walks by two foes. Reclining in the golden chair the sun of the sky is bright among his counselors. His jewels shine. His full sun within surrounding stars. The counselors speak gravely of grave things but the emperor's mind is away, away. In a pavilion all porcelain she sits among her maidens. Bright lily among plain leaves. Her fan floats back and forth rarely like a waving leaf. Her lord stays too long away. Perfume is on the breeze. An open window in the council room. The emperor dreams. She is fanning me the flavor of her lips. He rises littering with jewels and slowly walks, walks to the porcelain pavilion. The grave counselors are left looking at each other in sudden silence. The encounter by Lipo. They met. Their eyes met in shining dust at the capital. He raises riding crop in golden greeting. Of all those ten thousand houses by the wheel old river fair sweet lady which is the little one you call home. The breath of spring by anonymous. The breath of spring is everywhere. In every face the mimosa casts its delicate shadows. My dreams and butterflies. The fragrance of the quince intoxicates like wine. But I pluck the wheel of sorrow. A guff divides us. And there is no fairy bridge of birds to carry me across. I weep alone before my silver lamp and grow frail. As Xiaoyan, the slender beauty. When shall we share a night like this? A spring night like this? And meet together under a full moon? And of section two. Recording by Frédéric Siorger. Section three of the Jade Flute. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Frédéric Siorger. Wine flask at sunset by Tufu. Spring fragrances and level sand chas come sifting through my shutters. Now comes the supper hour when boatmen boil their rice on the river. In the gardens paris are twittering. On the road a chariot wheel is grating. Now, for the wine flask, let my travels fly away. Joining the insects, a bird in the late sand garden. When the sun rose by Lee Chuang Cha. When she went out to meet her lover under the big wheeled tree by the river edge she put on two of the lovely robes to please him. When the sand sunk below the hills and the night was dark the two lovers still lay there talking tenderly together. Suddenly she rose to her feet rosy with shame. Her third robe the darkness under the wheelo had fallen off with dawn. Going to market by Tufu. The little servant boy tying the feet of the chicken he would take to market. The chicken flutters in his hands and squawks with fright. My father stares without feelings.  The sparrow of her head is acting so delighted. Maybe some extra grain for him? Like a cormorant by Su Tong Ho. The cormorant stands still thinking. All alone at the river's edge is tearing eye follows the changing waters. When strollers come too close to him by lensing his long neck he flaps away waiting in a tall reeds till the intruders pass wishing to stare again at the undulations of the stream. And at dusk when the moon is replaying on the ways the cormorant still stands thinking with one foot in the current. Just so a man his heart burning with passion stares at the undulations of his dream. Travelled waters by Lipo. The artan moon is dancing in the green waters of Lake Nanhu. Now the sound of my oars has traveled the love song of whitewater lilies singing to the moon. Captivity by Tufu. In the old days in the palace hung with painted scrolls it was a good life for me. Incense burnt where I walked, silk cushions were scattered where I slept. Musicians played about me. I looked out on gardens with path of coral pebbles. Now, prisoner in this cold fortress, I hear only frightening calls from the watchman silly cries from monkeys playing on bare rocks in moonlight. Fear shakes me, my guts are emptied of courage. If only I could see the lights of the capital. But all I can see are stars above it. I sit on the stone fortress wall. There winds bring scent of almond blossoms from trees beyond my side. Be careful by anonymous. Take care, be fearful, night and day look sharp. We do not stumble on mountains but on clouds and fall. Our turn of all good things by Lipo. Out on the mountain sides, wheeling dead leaves are borrowed. Come with me up here on this watch tower. Here at the sea's edge we can watch grey clouds torn by winds and be set together. Now our turn has returned. Once more the tartar hordes are gathering on the cobbie border. Once more, we see the ambassador from Han come home, riding through the imperial gate. But will we ever see come home all the men that war has summoned? The former wife speaks by wife of Lucen. Bad curtain, long flapping in the breeze at night, long hanging there to screen us in the day. When I left my father's house I brought you with me and unfolded you with delight. Now I am taking you back again. I fold you and lay you flat in this wooden box bed curtain. Will I ever unfold you and hang you up again? Fading in the springtime by Wang Ting Chun. The careful knot of hair lies low upon her neck. Her long and narrow eyebrows are painted skillfully. Alas, following you her thoughts are wandering afar. In the season of her hundred flowers she grows thin and pale. The girl at home by Li Po. Earth has swallowed the snow. Again we see plum trees in blossom. New willow leaves are gold. Cold waters of the lake are silver. Butterflies padded with gold lay velvet heads to the hearts of flowers. In his moving boat the young fisherman pulls up his dripping net, making ripples on the steel water. He thinks of a girl at home, like a dark swallow in his nest. He thinks of a girl at home waiting like a dark swallow for her mate. The dragonfly from the book of songs. Dragonfly wings shining silken garments. Now my heart is aching. Who will give it's rest? Young dragonfly wings. Rich and broodered garments. Now my heart is aching. Who will give it peace? Dragonfly bursting its cocoon. Plain white linen garments. Now my heart is aching. Who will give it love? Who will give it love? We will grow old together by Li Po. Over and over you said, we will grow old together.  Today my lord I've heard that you love another woman. With my heart broken I come to say goodbye. One last time let us pour the old wine into our two cups. One last time let you sing me the sad song of the dead bird under the snow. Then I will take boat and sail down the river YouTube, whose waters divide to flow half east half west. Why do you cry young girls about to marry? Why do you cry? Perhaps you will marry a loyal man with a faithful heart, who will say to you solemnly over and over. We will grow old together. A Qianyu Temple by Po Chui. The tall crane walked out of the pool and stood on the flight of steps. The moon danced out of the pool and entered the open door. I was entrenched by this place. I could not leave for two nights. Fortunate to find a place of peaceful, happy no companion was there to drag me home. Now I have found this peaceful loneliness. I have resolved to come here only with myself. End of Section 3, Recording by Frédéric Surge. Section 4 of the Jade Fluid. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Frédéric Surge. The Orton Wind by Emperor Wu Ti. The wind blows. The white clouds run. The grass paves. The trees fall bare. The geese fly south. But the orchids bloom. Cree Vanthamans give their scent. I think of my lovely girl. I must leave her. But I cannot forget. I am rowed across the river on my pleasure barge. Across the river with wide ways riding, flute and drum and roarous song go with me. Now the feasting. Now the dancing. But still my heart is sad and we'll not dance. How few our years of golden youth. How certain our grey years of age. The End of All by Liepo. Clean the October wind. Clear the October moon. Heaped burn leaves are blowing. The black raven flies from its icy roost. I dream of you. Will ever I see you again? Ah, night of sorrowing heart. Waiting on the tower by Liepo. Here the moon floats bright over Heaven's mountain. It sails on the white cloud ocean, 5,000 miles away, a shrill wind screaming. And cold is whistling from you men pass. The empires soldiers march down the white-mount road. Tartars search the inlets of the blue sea. Soldiers may turn their heads, thinking of home. But at home we never see a returning soldier. She is standing on the watchtower again tonight. Sorrow and sadness without end is all. The Women of Parr by Liepo. Up there at Parr, the river shoots like flying arrows. Let a boat be caught, and it's swept off a thousand miles before the current quiets down. Oh, you women of Parr, how lucky for us. Your husbands must pull up this mighty river to get home. The Unrewarded Pirate by Jay Wing. Here sit I on a hard-word box, stenciled black with the name of a cellar of sugar. This table is so dirty. Even if I had food, I could not eat it here. Then how can I write of wine sprinkled with violets, so you may drink with delight? How can I promise I will decorate your blue dress with glittering emerald jewels? How can I offer you the perfect pair of golden amber or poor perfumes in a carved ball of rosy quartz, so you may dip in it the pointed tips of those beloved balefingers? To His Dead Lover by Li Fu Zhen. The swishing sound of silk is still. The dust gathers and marble floors. The room is hollow, cold and silent. Leaves have drifted against the doors. Longing for that lot-sweet girl, I wonder how to lull my aching heart to rest. To the Hermit Chang by Po Chu Yi. I hear you have come here to leave for good, here by the lonely gate among the burial mounds and closed by tall bamboo groves. I have come now to ask a favour. Will you lend me your old garden to use for looking at the hill? Non-being, from the way of virtue. Join the spokes together to make a wheel. The wheel is full of openness, non-being. But it is necessary. Spin a wet clay to shape a cooking pot. The cooking pot is empty. Fool of non-being. But it is necessary. Work of thought to cut out door and windows. Door and windows are holes, non-being. But they are necessary. To have being is good. But also it is necessary to have non-being. Nothingness. Eternity. From the way of virtue. The heaven endures forever and the earth is eternal. Why are heaven and earth and terrain an eternal? Because they do not live for themselves. Therefore they can live forever. The wise man desires to be forgotten. But he is remembered. He desires to be free of life. But he retains it. He desires nothing for himself. But he finds everything he wants. The way of the way. From the way of virtue. If you follow the way, you may travel all over the empire without harm. You will find peace and you will find quietness. Perhaps you will pause for music and strange foods. No harm to enjoy them. But the way itself has no flavor. The way itself has no sound. The way itself cannot be seen. But use it. It is never ending. Away with philosophers. From the way of virtue. Away with philosophers. Away with sages. People will be a hundred full wiser. Away with charity. Away with virtue. People will return to goodness and kindness. Away with prophets. Away with skills. People will be free of robbers and thieves. If these three reforms not enough. Then let all men simply gaze on plainness. Cherish and carve blocks of stone. Forgo the eye and free themselves from all desire. Not in repayment. From the book of songs. He gave me a quince. Then I gave him a carved jade. Not to pay him back. But to make a love long-lasting. He gave me a peach. Then I gave him an emerald. Not to pay him back. But to make a love long-lasting. He gave me a plum. Then I gave him a black jade. Not to pay him back. But to make a love long-lasting. Waiting for you by Meng Hai Chen. Over the paths of the western mountains. Travels the evening sun. The hillfolds gather their deep dark. The moon lights up cold in its twisted pine branch. The little brook sings cold. And the cold wind sighs. The woodcutters all have carried their bundles home. The willing birds are settled in the trees. The hour is past that you promised you would come. My loot is still. Leaning among the vines. Waiting in the cold glen among the vines. Dragon of the Shorless Sea. By Li Han Chang. Oh dragon. Ruler of the Shorless Sea of Death. Carry away my beloved. While leaning over her with passion. I drink in a perfumed breath. Carry her away in your shape of ghosts. And carry me away with her. That we may float forever together on that sea. Drunken with love. The wind-thorn roof. Thy two foo. In the eighth moon of Otton.  Flying over the river the thatch rained on the embankment. Tangled in the trees. Willed afar to sink and settle in the marshes. A swarm of boys from the village laughed at me because I am feeble. Oh insolence. Stealing my thatch and carrying it off to play within the bamboo grove. I screamed at them with a dry tongue. But they laughed at me and I came home sighing. Then the wind stopped. The clouds turned dark. A night came on like ink. My old cotton quilt was cold as iron. My sweet son tossed in his sleep. Bare feet sticking through the blankets. Rain came through the roof. Till there was not dry inch in bed. Like streams of wax the rain hanged down. All the disasters of war hung down. And keep us from peaceful rest. I dream of a great house with ten thousand rooms. There all cold creatures can take shelter with bright faces. Out of the rain. Out of the wind. Safe in a house solid as a mountain. Ah, when shall I ever see such a house? Could I ever see it? Ah, though the wind tore down my hut entirely. Though I froze to death in the storm. Then should I die happy? End of section four. Recording by Frédéric Surge. Section five of the Jade Flute. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Frédéric Surge. The startled plums fall down by Zhang Xian. The clouds are soft, the willows delicate. Her hair is freshly dressed. She places the flute upon her lips. And as the sunset fades and dusk settles. She plays beneath the pale moon. A freshly opened cherry bird. Her lips upon the flute. She leans in the corner of the balcony. The night is chill. Her silken robes are thin. Her fingers cold. That music floats through frosty woods. And startled plums fall pattering down. Weep not, young women, by lipo. It is always sad, Orton, when our enemies sweep down the raiders from the mountains to invade us. The trumpets summon the warriors. They will ride on till they come to the Great Wall. Then they will ride beyond it, out on the Great Copy Desert. There, only the cold bare moon. Only cold beads of dew on swords and shields. How they shiver. Weep not, young women. This is no time to start your weeping. Who knows how long that you must weep? Before and after, by Chen Tzu Ang. Looking backwards. I cannot see the ancients of days. Looking forward. I cannot see ages yet to come. Only heaven and earth have remained and will remain forever. I am alone. I grieve. I drop tears into the dust. Why be jealous, by lipo? My little boat is made of ebony. My flute stops of pure gold. Water loosened stains from silk. Wine loosened sadness from the heart. With gold wine, a graceful boat, and a sweet girl's laugh. Why be jealous of mere gods? A lady from afar, by pair King Yi. That night, a night in early autumn, we sailed to the Isle of Parrots. There we gazed at the round moon and listened to the windy pines. Suddenly, we heard music. A sad song, coming on the wind. There was a singer in a boat. As it drew near us, we saw a woman, white as snow, singing and crying too, leaning on the mast. My companion asked her why she wept.  To the dancing girl Xiaoling, by Zhang Qian. You called for poems about Twilight. Each Twilight now brings memories of the soft blue dress you wore. That day in the palace, when you read and judged them. If mine was judged the best, you see, there was a vision of you, a vision in blue vase, in the blue dawn when I could not sleep, so I got up from bed and wrote the poem. But you slept on and knowing in that early dawn, you did not peep out from the jade flower pavilion to see roses blooming in the sky above the palace. In that same palace once, for love of her, Wu Ti made Empress a lovely dancing girl, like you. The garden that does not fade, by Emperor Qian Lang. These flowers of jade in their little bugs may your noble thoughts, like these flowers, be always indestructible and lovingly arranged. Peasant Song by Anonymous When the sun rises, we get up to work, when the sun sets, we lie down to sleep. For our water we dig our wells, for our food we hoo our fields. Oh, the emperor may be great and powerful, but what is that to us? The Perp Dreams by Tu Fu Now sad rains are falling, let us say now. The sky weeps because fine weather is all gone. Boredom pies up like heavy rain clouds. Where is our gate in width? Let us sit indoors. Now is the time for poetry that remembers summer. Let it be put down gently on white paper, like full-blown petals falling from exquisite trees. And let my lips drink from this cup of summer wine, each time my brush is dipped into the ink. Thus will I keep my fancy from frothing off like clouds or smoke, time past escapes from us quicker than the flight of birds. Laughter in the Thicket by Li Po The gay and gallant youth, his palace is on the road of imperial tombs near the golden bazaar, sets out into the sweet spring breeze. His tall white charger, saddled with silver, prances gracefully in rhythmic steps. Beneath him is a whirlwind of petals as he rides through the carpet of fallen blossoms. The youth rains in the charger perplexed. The laugh, sweet and musical, rings from the Thicket. Now he is perplexed no more. Seeing you off by Pochu E. Because you are old, because you are leaving, my uncle Schiff is wet with tears.  I am uneasy at the wind rises and your boat sails off. Wide-headed traveler among wide-headed waves. A Letter Home by Li Shangyin You asked me, when will I come home? There is no date settled yet. Here at Pashan in Otten, evening rain floods the hollows. Oh, for the time when we can put out the candle together by the western window. Oh, for the time when I can tell you how I feel here tonight. At Pashan, when Otten rain floods the hollows. The Pite on the Flood by Tu Fu I see winds sweep down from the mountains and rip out the trees. Pitiless the flood rises in the river day by day. There is no mountain now or fields. Everything is fog and water. All the same, my late-chrism thermals are in bloom When you row past, young he, slow your boat in front of my garden and gaze at them. Their hot colors will rewarm your heart. Partying in Otten by Li Yang The crickets are cold. Their song is sad. Outside the pavilion the large shower drops patter down. Hollow the happy farewell party. We linger. While the riverboat loaded with a sandalwood is waiting for me to go aboard. We stand hand in hand. We stand without talking. We stand with tears. To think that I must travel a thousand miles of mist and rain and water. The evening clouds are gathering again. And the sky widens to the south. It is an old story.  And it is all the worse in rainy Otten. Tonight, when I grow sober, after all this wine, where will you be? On the willowish shore, under the waning moon? And I, all this year away, sunshine, lovely sights will come to me in vain. No one, all this year, to tell a thousand happy thoughts. End of section 5, read by Frédéric Surge. Section 6 of the Jade Flute. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Frédéric Surge. The embroidery by Lee Poe. The cool wind of evening blows birdsong to window where the maiden sits. She is embroidering flower patterns on silk. Her head is raised. Her work falls from her fingers. Her thoughts have flown to someone far away. A bird can easily find its mate among the leaves, but all maiden's tears, falling like rain from heaven, will not bring back her distant lover. She bends again to her embroidery. I will weave a little verse among these flowers of his robe. Perhaps he will read it and come back again. The South Wind by Anonymous. The sweet smell of the South Wind can calm the tempers of my people. The sweet rain of the South Wind can nourish the grain fields of my people. Let us drink wine by Lee Poe. Look, do you not see the rain falling at last from the sky? Falling into the Yellow River flowing fast into the sea and never, never returning? Look, do you not see the clear mirror in the hall showing our hair black silk at morning, fallen to bitter snow by night? You who have had your feel of bitter life, come drink the dregs with me. Let there be moonlight in our evening, let the golden cups never stand empty. Heaven blessed me with riches, and I must pant myself. Though I throw away ten thousand gold coins and poems, always I find more. So let us slaughter the sheep and the ox, let us make merry and merry, why I promise to swallow three hundred cups this single night. Calm, friend Chen, calm, Master Chen, I offer you my wine. Do not refuse it. I offer you my song. Do not ignore it. The meads and the dancing and the music are not my desire. My only desire is to be drunk forever and ever and never wake again. Scholars and saints are forgotten soon, but great drunkards are immortal. Let's say Prince Chen at his great Ping Yu Temple fixed paid ten thousand coins for wine. So everyone could have enough now that I give the feast. There I lack money? No. Let us buy the wine. Let us drink together. I will send my boy with my five-colored horse. I will send my boy with my wondrous furs worth alone ten thousand coins. He will barter them for wine, and we, we will draw on the sorrow of a thousand generations. At the river by Li Po. She gathers lily flowers in the shallow river waters, singing as she waits. Now a stranger dodles along the bank. She turns around to look at him. Hiding in a bunch of lilies pretending to be embarrassed, she peeks out a smile. Crithon Thermums by Tao Yang Ming I built my little house right in the city, but I never hear horse or carriage. Do you wonder how this can be? Because a soul unattached creates its own sweet solitude. I picked Crithon Thermums under the hedge to the east, gaze at the mountain rising to the south, breathe high western air at sunset, watch the birds fly north. These things hold hidden truth, but when I try to uncover them words are not the way. The Instrument by Po Chu Yi I set my stringed instrument here on the elegant table. I sit here on the exquisite bench. Emotions flow into me, move me as I sit here quietly. Why should I play? Breezes will find the instrument. Breezes will flow over it and sweep the strings to song. A Dream of You by Su Shi For ten years I have been living and you have been dead. Even when I do not think of you I cannot forget. Your lonely grave is a thousand miles away. Where can I go to speak my sadness? Even if we met now you would never recognize me. My hair is going gray at the temples. My wrinkled face always covered with dust of the road. In a dream last night I came home. At the open window of our room you sat coming your air. We stared at each other without a word and burst into tears. I cherish in memory that glen of our heart breaking. That steel moonlight night, that hill of little pines. A Song Out There by Tu Fu A song out there why it is a beggar singing. If this old man who never had a silver coin can sing, why must you with rich gold memories sit here and sigh? Thinking of a Lover by Prince Li Qing The fragrance is blown from the lotus flowers. The emerald leaves are withered now and brown. The west wind is puffing sorrows into green ripples on the river. Everything is dying. My yearns are dying. I cannot bear the sight of death. I stare the silken lines of rain when my dreams are floating in the lost lands of nevermore. Alone I blow on my flute of jade until my balcony freezes with the icy notes. Oh endless sorrows, endless tears, endless leaning on my empty balcony. Autumn Moon by Li Po The jade staircase weeps with dew. It wets her silken shoes as she climbs slowly to the pavilion. She too weeps, letting down a curtain of crystal beads like a tinkling waterfall. She sits staring through it at the autumn moon. Lacy Dancing by Li Po In the imperial garden breezes toy with opening lotus blossoms. On the terrace lying on silk gush and scattered there, the king lies resting. More delicate than a thin scarf of mist, brighter than the eastern star, lazy the beauty, the favorite, denses for the king. All tremulous eyelids and trembling limbs, she circles and drops beside the king. Under the royal eye her lids are lowered. Reflections by Tu Fu Rapidly tonight my boat floats down the river under a cloud-dap whole sky. I look into the water. It is as clear as the night. When clouds float past the moon, I see them floating in the river and feel I am roaring in the sky. I think of my love mirrored so in my heart. At midnight by Li Po Look, moonlight shining on my bed. Or is it the white of frost? Rising my head, I see the moon of a mantain. Lowering it, I remember all my debts and errors. An Elegy by Yuan Chen Last best-loved daughter of Hul Xie, you who foolishly ran off with that penniless boy, who mended his clothes with patches from your old clothes brought from home, and I teased you for your gold airpins, so we could trade for wine, and we drank it without dinners, berries, and hers picked cheap in the field, cooked of the dry leaves from the field. Now, when they pay me well, all I can give back to you is temple offerings. Long, long ago we could laugh at dying, but death a magician closed you in his hand and opened it suddenly empty. I have locked your needlework away. I have given your clothes away. My eyes are not strong enough. I am gentle, because you wear two our serving maids and men. Sometimes, when I dream, I dream I shower you with gifts. All of us must know such sorrow. To know it best, you must first be poor and happy together. Here I sit alone, here I sigh for both of us. How many beads must I still count upon my string of time? Better men than I have grown old without the sun. A better part sank to his dead wife who could not hear. We never said that we would meet again in death. I have no hope beyond darkness. All I have is to stare into the night, seeing again and again that little rurrid wrinkle in your brow. End of Section 6, read by Frédéric Surgé. End of The Jade Flute by Various Chinese Parts