Anon.
Remembering the stories told of her,
I turn the ghost leaves of a shadow book.
Each touch of her light hands, each drowsy look
From her camellia petal-shaded eyes,
Were like the butterflies
That float from character to character
All down this ancient poet’s painted scroll—
Which now on rods of ivory I roll,
And, wrapped in silken fragrance, lay aside.
So, silently remembering, I hide
Her name, inscribed on tablets of my soul.
Out of five thousand, not one character
Could tell her beauty nor my tears for her.