A Verse by Li Qing-zhao
From a peddler’s tray of bamboo,
I pick up a budding spring sprig, in rosy hue...
Moist with a faint teary trace,
Aglow with a dawn’s dewy lace.
Afeard my lord mote chance to view -
The flower may appear much fairer than I do ...
The sprig, aslant in my hair, I place,
For him to compare, who holds more grace...
Revised by Ziyuzile
17/03/2025