落叶纷纷暮雨和,朱丝独抚自清歌。
放情休恨无心友,养性空抛苦海波。
长者车音门外有,道家书卷枕前多。
布衣终作云霄客,绿水青山时一过。
Leaves falling one by one
and rain at dusk is tender
vermilion lute, playing alone
sound of a clear voice singing
try to ignore your regret
at having no intimate friends or lovers
try to build up your character
and cast your bitterness into the sea
sound of a carriage outside the door
come for some venerable elder
heaps of Taoist books
scattered in front of the pillow
raggedly dressed people
eventually go to heaven
green water and blue hills
already here and gone.
Seven-character poem
We can put this poem in the last three years of Yu Xuanji's life. I think we can no longer doubt that she values her calling of Daoism more than her earthly successes. And perhaps, at this time, she is turning away from the influential men -- ministers and poets -- at her gates. Perhaps, up until now, she has been happy to receive them. We should remember that this is poetry and what she is calling her gates, which conjures up the vermillion gates of the well-to-do, could simply be the convent gates. And when she has received visiting men, she may have done so in the outer, public rooms of the monastery where all such men would be greeted and spoken with by monks or nuns, abbots or abbesses.
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