A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems/Illness

by Arthur Waley

ILLNESS

Sad, sad — lean with long illness;
Monotonous, monotonous — days and nights pass.
The summer trees have clad themselves in shade;
The autumn "Ian"^[1] already houses the dew.
The eggs that lay in the nest when I took to bed
Have changed into little birds and flown away.
The worm that then lay hidden in its hole
Has hatched into a cricket sitting on the tree.
The Four Seasons go on for ever and ever:
In all Nature nothing stops to rest
Even for a moment. Only the sick man's heart
Deep down still aches as of old!

 

1. The epidendrum.