Li Po
into insignificance. He forgot that he was Emperor of China, forgot that he was supposedly presiding at Court in the Colden Pavilion. Now he was a poet, absorbed in melodies as polished as green jade.
Occasionally, he repeated a sentence aloud: "A lovely woman draws a pearl string blind. . . . Now in the east the light is mounting high. . . . Do the white clouds still melt in the air, beheld by no one?. . . Over whose home does the glad moon sink to rest?"
He looked up quickly. No greater gift had he had for months than this.
"What is the name of this poet?" he asked, excitedly.
"Li Po."
"Have him come to me." So saying, Ming Huang again mounted the throne.
A moment later, Li Po came forward. He walked a bit unsteadily, though he could not help swaggering. He smirked at the self-important officials as he passed. What need had he for a tasseled cap when his words were golden and the elegance of his brush strokes might shame even Wang Wei? Nevertheless, he had naught but reverence for the celebrated doctor whose poems were pictures and whose pictures, poems. Under Wang Wei's interpretation the magnificence of landscapes took on new meaning.
Arrived before Ming Huang, Li Po attempted to prostrate himself but fell in the attempt. Ho Chih-chang hurriedly stepped forward and assisted him to his feet.
