The Jade Mountain/A Song of Dagger-Dancing

by Du Fu

A SONG OF DAGGER-DANCING

To A Girl-Pupil of Lady Kung-sun

 

(On the 19th of the Tenth-month in the second year of Ta-i, I saw, in the house of the K'uêi-fu official Yüan T'ê, a girl named Li from Ling-ying dancing with a dagger. I admired her skill and asked who was her teacher. She named Lady Kung-sun. I remembered that in the third year of K'ai-yüan at Yen-ch'êng, when I was a little boy, I saw Lady Kung-sun dance. She was the only one in the Imperial Theatre who could dance with this weapon. Now she is aged and unknown, and even her pupil has passed the heyday of beauty. I wrote this poem to express my wistfulness. The work of Chang Hsü of the Wu district, that great master of grassy writing, was improved by his having been present when Lady Kung-sun danced in the Yieh district. From this may be judged the art of Kung-sun.)

 

There lived years ago the beautiful Kung-sun,Who, dancing with her dagger, drew from all four quarters An audience like mountains lost among themselves.Heaven and earth moved back and forth, following her motions,Which were bright as when the Archer shot the nine suns down the skyAnd rapid as angels before the wings of dragons.She began like a thunderbolt, venting its anger,And ended like the shining calm of rivers and the sea . . .But vanished are those red lips and those pearly sleeves;And none but this one pupil bears the perfume of her fame,This beauty from Ling-ying, at the Town of the White God,Dancing still and singing in the old blithe way.And while we reply to each other's questions,We sigh together, saddened by changes that have come.There were eight thousand ladies in the late Emperor's court,But none could dance the dagger-dance like Lady Kung-sun.. . . Fifty years have passed, like the turning of a palm;Wind and dust, filling the world, obscure the Imperial House.Instead of the Pear-Garden Players, who have blown by like a mist,There are one or two girl-musicians now—trying to charm the cold Sun.There are man-size trees by the Emperor's Golden Tomb. . . .I seem to hear dead grasses rattling on the cliffs of Ch'ü-t'ang.. .. The song is done, the slow string and quick pipe have ceased.At the height of joy, sorrow comes with the eastern moon rising.And I, a poor old man, not knowing where to go,Must harden my feet on the lone hills, toward sickness and despair.

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