Washing Sand in the Stream
The morning sun has already risen,
fully thirty feet high.
Golden tripods, one after another, are filled
with incense animals.
The red brocade carpet
rufles with every step.
The lovely one dances tip-toe,
her golden hairpin slippen out;
Nauseated by wine, she often plucks
flower buds to smell,
While from the other palace is heard dimly
the music of fifes and drums.
The morning sun has already risen,
fully thirty feet high.
Golden tripods, one after another, are filled
with incense animals.
The red brocade carpet
rufles with every step.
The lovely one dances tip-toe,
her golden hairpin slippen out;
Nauseated by wine, she often plucks
flower buds to smell,
While from the other palace is heard dimly
the music of fifes and drums.











