O Soul go not to the North,
    To the Lame Dragon’s frozen peaks;
    Where trees and grasses dare not grow;
    Where a river runs too wide to cross
    And too deep to plumb,
    And the sky is white with snow
    And the cold cuts and kills. 
    O Soul seek not to fill
    The treacherous voids of the north!

    O Soul come back to idleness and peace. 
    In quietude enjoy
    The lands of Ching and Ch`u. 
    There work your will and follow your desire
    Till sorrow is forgot,
    And carelessness shall bring you length of days. 
    O Soul come back to joys beyond all telling!

    Where thirty cubits high at harvest-time
    The corn is stacked;
    Where pies are cooked of millet and bearded-maize. 
    Guests watch the steaming bowls
    And sniff the pungency of peppered herbs. 
    The cunning cook adds slices of bird-flesh,
    Pigeon and yellow-heron and black-crane. 
    They taste the badger-stew. 
    O Soul come back to feed on foods you love!

    Next are brought
    Fresh turtle, and sweet chicken cooked in cheese
    Pressed by the men of Ch`u. 
    And pickled sucking-pig
    And flesh of whelps floating in liver-sauce
    With salad of minced radishes in brine;
    All served with that hot spice of southernwood
    The land of Wu supplies. 
    O Soul come back to choose the meats you love!

    Roasted daw, steamed widgeon and grilled quail—­
    On every fowl they fare. 
    Boiled perch and sparrow broth,—­in each preserved
    The separate flavour that is most its own. 
    O Soul come back to where such dainties wait!

    The four strong liquors are warming at the fire
    So that they grate not on the drinker’s throat. 
    How fragrant rise their fumes, how cool their taste! 
    Such drink is not for louts or serving-men! 
    And wise distillers from the land of Wu
    Blend unfermented spirit with white yeast
    And brew the li of Ch`u. 
    O Soul come back and let your yearnings cease!

    Reed-organs from the lands of T`ai and Ch`in
    And Wei and Cheng1
    Gladden the feasters, and old songs are sung: 
    The “Rider’s Song” that once
    Fu-hsi, the ancient monarch, made;
    And the harp-songs of Ch`u. 
    Then after prelude from the flutes of Chao
    The ballad-singer’s voice rises alone. 
    O Soul come back to the hollow mulberry-tree![1]

    Eight and eight the dancers sway,
    Weaving their steps to the poet’s voice
    Who speaks his odes and rhapsodies;
    They tap their bells and beat their chimes
    Rigidly, lest harp and flute
    Should mar the measure. 
    Then rival singers of the Four Domains
    Compete in melody, till not a tune
    Is left unsung that human voice could sing. 
    O Soul come back and listen to their songs!