Burying Flowers: A Lament

The blossoms fade and falling fill the air, Of fragrance and bright hues bereft and bare. Gossamer threads float from the spring-time bowers, And willow fluff wafts gently to the embroidered doors. A girl within the chamber mourns the passing spring, Her heart so full of sorrow, nowhere to set it free. She takes her flower hoe beyond the curtained door, Treading on fallen petals, back and forth once more. Willow and elm in their own splendor shine, Heedless of peach and plum blossoms' decline. Peach and plum next year may bloom once more— But who will dwell within the chamber's door? By the third month, the fragrant nest is built; The swallows on the beam are far too cruel. Next year when blossoms open they may peck again, But by then the people are gone, beams bare, nests fallen. Three hundred sixty days the year goes round, With cutting winds and biting frosts that hound. How long can beauty bright and fresh endure? Once blown adrift, it vanishes for sure. Bloom is easy to see, but fall hard to find; The burial maid at the steps is sick at heart. Leaning alone on her hoe, she sheds secret tears That splash on the bare twigs and leave marks like blood. The cuckoo is silent now; dusk draws near. She shoulders her hoe and goes, barring the heavy door. A green lamp on the wall as she starts to sleep; Cold rain taps at the window, quilts still not warm. What doubles her grief so, this strange unease? Half for love of spring, half vexed at spring. Love of spring's sudden coming, vexed at its sudden flight— It comes without a word and goes unheard. Last night, outside the court, a sad song rose— Was it the soul of flowers, or soul of birds? Flower-souls and bird-souls alike are hard to keep: Birds are voiceless, and the flowers blush with shame. Oh, let me sprout wings beneath my arms And fly with the flowers to the sky's very end! The sky's end—where is there a fragrant hill? Better to gather her fair bones in a silken bag, And with a handful of clean earth cover all her grace. Pure she came, and pure let her depart— Better than to fall in some foul ditch. Now you are dead, and I shall bury you; But when shall I myself be called to go? Today I bury flowers, and people laugh me mad; Another year, who will be there to bury me? Watch—as spring wanes and flowers begin to fall, That is the time when beauty fades and dies. One day, when spring is gone and beauty old, Flowers fall, and the one who loved them dies—and neither knows!