The Keu Lin

His many chariots rush along,
Drawn by white-fronted steeds and strong.
When audience now we wish to gain,
His eunuchs’ aid we must obtain.

The varnish trees on hill-sides grow,
And chestnuts on the lands below.
When access to the prince we’ve found,
We sit and hear the lutes’ sweet sound.
If we seize not this joy to-day,
Old age will have us for its prey.

The mulberries on the hill-sides grow,
And willows where the grounds are low.
When to the prince our way we’ve made,
We sit and hear the organs played.
If we pass by this joy to-day,
Old age will bear us all away.