there lived years ago the beautiful Gongsun, who, dancing with her dagger, drew from all four quarters.
an audience like mountains lost among themselves, heaven and earth moved back and forth, following her motions.
which were bright as when the Archer shot the nine suns down the sky, and rapid as angels before the wings of dragons.
she began like a thunderbolt, venting its anger, and ended like the shining calm of rivers and the sea.
but vanished are those red lips and those pearly sleeves, and none but this one pupil bears the perfume of her fame.
this beauty from Linying, at the Town of the White God, dancing still and singing in the old blithe way.
and while we reply to each other's questions, we sigh together, saddened by changes that have come.
there were eight thousand ladies in the late Emperor's court, but none could dance the dagger-dance like Lady Gongsun.
fifty years have passed, like the turning of a palm, wind and dust, filling the world, obscure the Imperial House.
the disciples in the pear garden are scattered like smoke, and the female music reflects the cold day.
the south wood of Jinsudui has been arched, and the grass of Qutang Shicheng is bleak.
the song is done, the slow string and quick pipe have ceased, at the height of joy, sorrow comes with the eastern moon rising.
and I, a poor old man, not knowing where to go, must harden my feet on the lone hills, toward sickness and despair.