William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920.

To the Dead Favourite of Liu Ch’e

THE SOUND of rustling silk is stilled,

With solemn dust the court is filled,

No footfalls echo on the floor;

A thousand leaves stop up her door,

Her little golden drink is spilled.

Her painted fan no more shall rise

Before her black barbaric eyes—

The scattered tea goes with the leaves.

And simply crossed her yellow sleeves;

And every day a sunset dies.

Her birds no longer coo and call,

The cherry blossoms fade and fall,

Nor ever does her shadow stir,

But stares forever back at her,

And through her runs no sound at all.

And bending low, my falling tears

Drop fast against her little ears,

And yet no sound comes back, and I

Who used to play her tenderly

Have touched her not a thousand years.

The Dial