THE CICADA
The cicada transformed from the wronged Queen of Qi
Pours out her broken heart from year to year on the tree.
It sobs now on cold twig and now on darkened leaves;
Again and again
It laments her death and grieves.
When the west window’s swept by rain,
It sings in the air as her jasper pendant rings
Or her fair fingers play on zither’s strings.
No longer black is now her mirrored hair.
For whom should its wings still be black and fair?
The golden statue steeped in tears of lead[1]
Was carried far away with plate in days of old.
Where can the cicada find dew on which it fed?
Its sickly wings are afraid of autumn cold,
And its abandoned form has witnessed rise and fall.
How many sunsets can it still endure?
Its last song is saddest of all.
Why should it sing alone on high and pure
And suddenly appear,
So sad and drear?
Can it forget the summer breeze
When waved a thousand twigs of willow trees?
蝉
一襟余恨官魂断，
年年翠阴庭树。
乍咽凉柯，
还移暗叶，
重把离愁深诉。
西窗过雨，
怪瑶佩流空，
玉筝调柱。
镜暗妆残，
为谁娇鬓尚如许？
铜仙铅泪似洗，
叹移盘去远，
难贮零露。
病翼惊秋，
枯形阅世，
消得斜阳几度？
余音更苦，
甚独抱清霜，
顿成凄楚！
谩想薰风，
柳丝千万缕。