Nine Poems
- Poetry of He Shuangqing

未许焚修闭小庵，冰心无皱似澄潭。

泥迟枉怪饥时燕，茧薄谁怜病后蚕。

今年膏雨断秋云，为补新租又典裙。

留得护郎轻絮暖， 妾心如蜜取嫌君。

细纫麻鞋线几重，采樵明日上西峰。

乍寒一夜风偏急，莫向郎吹尽向侬。

冷厨烟湿障低房，爨尽梧桐谢凤凰。

野菜自挑寒自洗，菊花虽痛奈何霜？

浸透春酸一点心，病中疏梦意销沉。

镜钗己卖酬方药，自削杨柳照水簪。

命如蝉翼愧轻绡，旧与邻娥一样娇。

阿母见儿还认否？苦黄生面喜红消。

四屏山影远如台，郎负寒薪下几回？

归后劝郎晨晏起，日高私禁外人催。

家鸡双宿笑栖鸾，比翼齐肩并紫冠。

灯暗结花光变绿，灶稜堪倚胜阑干。

妾住衡门傍彩楼，夜香吹下隔帘愁。

袖开落尽秋红句，衰草残阳梦远游。

I

I cannot hope to burn incense and meditate in a cloistered temple,

My heart unrippled as a still clear pond.

Don't blame a starving swallow for bringing nest mud too late;

Who pities an ailing silkworm for spinning a flimsy cocoon?

II

This year torrents break forth from the autumn clouds.

To pay the new rent, I have pawned my skirt.

If I can save a quilt to protect you from the cold,

My heart will be like honey how could I fault you?

III

Coiling and stitching hemp, I make a pair of shoes,

To ascend the western peak for wood tomorrow.

The sudden cold brings a night of gusty winds;

I implore them to blow my way instead of yours.

IV

In the chilly kitchen, smoke hangs heavy and damp over the room.

With the wutong trees all burned, the phoenix has no perch.

Alone I pick wild vegetables and wash them in the cold.

The chrysanthemum, though ill, still has to bear the frost.

V

My fate is thin and insubstantial as a cicada's wing.

I used to be as beautiful as the girl next door.

Would mother recognize me now

With my tired and sallow face, all its cheerful color gone?

VI

My heart is soaked through with springtime bitterness.

In my illness, sparse dreams easily fall into oblivion.

Having sold my few cheap hairpins for a dose of medicine,

I cut a poplar twig to fasten my hair, with water as a mirror.

VII

Mount Siping looms like a platform in the distance,

From where you, carrying cold firewood, descend many times.

On your return I urge you to get up a little later,

Though the sun is high, I privately bar outsiders from rousing you.

VIII

The chickens, sleeping in pairs, mock the phoenix who perches alone,

They fly in pairs as well, their purple crowns aligned.

The dim lamp wick now flares with green perhaps an omen there? 

If so, my humble stove is better to lean on than a balcony rail.

IX

I live in a simple house next to a wealthy establishment.

Incense smoke drifts down at night, rousing my sense of loss.

Opening my sleeves, I pour out these sad lines of autumn.

Withering grass, setting sun, I dream of roaming afar.