"The mound is ready,
Our hearts also;
The bamboo flutes sound,
The wooden cithers vibrate.
The rites unfold with majesty,
The bells and the gongs sound,
To honor the Sovereign on high,
In the hope that he will
Bless us."
When the voices were stilled, the Emperor traced the first furrows with a yellow plough. The people stood with bowed heads. Not a sound disturbed the silence, not a leaf stirred. The trees momentarily abandoned their murmuring.
Ming Huang walked slowly, with stumbling footsteps, as though afraid of Spring. But it was not Spring that disturbed him but the burden of grief in his heart.
After the Emperor, came his eighteen sons, the Princes of China. Each traced five furrows with a red plough. Ming Huang imagined he could see the small son of Mei-fei, the nineteenth Prince, at the end of the procession.
Finally came the ministers of the Court, each ploughing nine furrows.
Once more the people burst forth in joyous song, for they knew that even though the wheat grown in this field would be used in part for Imperial sacrifice, the
greater portion would be divided among the poor of
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