The expected rainstorm has arrived. It began with some furious wind driving a sudden downpour, which led me to anticipate spectacle, but it quickly settled down to a standard late winter drizzle. Now the afternoon is leaden sky and wet, bare branches, and camellia leaves tipped with bright drops of water. A blue jay keeps screeching, but all the other birds have taken shelter. About thirty percent of my brain is awake. I think it wants to take another nap.
From the "Nineteen Pieces of Old Poetry"
(from Han Dynasties and Interregnum; author uncertain)
I drive my chariot up to the Eastern Gate;
From afar I see the graveyard north of the Wall.
The white aspens how they murmur, murmur;
Pines and cypress flank the broad paths.
Beneath lie men who died long ago;
Black, black is the long night that holds them.
Deep down beneath the yellow springs,
Thousands of years they lie without waking.
In infinite succession light and darkness shift,
And years vanish like the morning dew.
Man's life is like a sojourning,
His longevity lacks the firmness of stone and metal.
For ever it has been that mourners in their turn were mourned.
Saint and Sage, -- all alike are trapped.
Seeking by food to obtain Immortality
Many have been the dupe of strange drugs.
Better far to drink good wine
And clothe our bodies in robes of satin and silk.