occurred to me that the lotus pond, which I pass by every day, must assume quite a different look in such moonlit night. A full moon was rising high in the sky; the laughter of children playing outside had died away; in the room, my wife was patting the son, run-er, sleeping humming a cradlesong. Shagging on an overcoat, quietly, I made my way out, closing the door behind me.
Alongside the lotus pond runs a small cinder footpath. It is peaceful and secluded here, a place not frequented by pedestrians even in the daytime; now at night, it looks more solitary, in a lush, shady ambience of trees all around the pond. On the side where the path is, three are willows, interlaced with some others whose names I do not know. The foliage, which, in moonlight is not more than a thin, grayish veil.
I am on my own, strolling, hands behind my back. This bit of the universe seems in my possession now; and myself seem to have been uplifted from my ordinary self into another world. I like a serene and peaceful life, as much as a busy and active one; I like being in solitude, as much as in company. As it is tonight, basking in a misty moonshine ass by myself, I feel I am a free man, free to think of anything, or of nothing. All that one is obliged to do, or to say, in the daytime, can be very well cast aside now. That is the beauty of being alone. For the moment, just let me indulge in this profusion of moonlight and lotus fragrance.
All over this winding stretch of water, what meets the eyes is a silken field of leaves, reaching rather high above the surface, like the skirts of dancing girls in all their grace. Here and there, layers of leaved are dotted with white lotus blossoms, others in shy bud, like scattering pearls, or twinkling stars, or beauties just out of the bath. A breeze stirs, sending over breaths of fragrance, like faint singing drifting from a distant building. At this moment, a tiny thrill shoots through the leaved and lilies, like a streak of lightning, straight across the forest of lotuses. The leaves, which have been standing shoulder to shoulder, are caught shimmering in an emerald heave of the pond. Underneath, the exquisite water is covered from view, and none can tell its colors; yet leaves on top project themselves all the more attractively.
The moon sheds her liquid light silently over the leave and flowers, which, in the floating transparency of a bluish haze from the pond, look as if they had just been bathed in milk, or like a dream wrapped in a gauzy hood. Although it is a full moon, shining through a film of clouds, the light is not at its brightest; it is, however, just right for me—a profound sleep is indispensable, yet a snatched doze also has a savour of its own. The moonlight is streaming sown through the foliage, casting bushy shadows on the ground from high above, jagged and checkered, as grotesque as a party of specters; whereas the benign figures of the drooping willows, here and there, look like paintings on the lotus leaves. The moonlight is not spread evenly over the pond, but rather in a harmonious rhythm of light and shade, like a famous melody played on a violin.
Around the pond, far and near, high and low, are trees. Most of them are willows. Only on the path side, can two or three gaps be seen through the heavy fringe, as if specially reserved for the moon. The shadowy shaped of the leafage at first sight seem diffused into a mass of mist, against which, however, the charm of those willow trees is still discernible. Over the trees appear some distant mountains, but merely in sketchy silhouette. Over the trees appear some distant mountains, but merely in sketchy silhouette. Through the branched are also a couple of lamps, as listless as sleepy eyes. The most lively creatures here, for the moment, must be the cicadas in the trees and the frogs in the pond. But the liveliness is theirs, I have nothing.
Suddenly, something like lotus gathering crosses my mind. It used to be celebrated as a folk festival in the south, probably dating very far back in history, most popular in the period of six dynasties. We can pick up some outlined of this activity in the poetry. It was young girls who went gathering lotuses, in sampans and singing love