Life After Life, Blooms Over Blooms
This fated love of forever and a day—
Who has picked it up? Who has thrown it away?
Who has forgotten it all? Who yearns for it to stay?
Those days bygone and labyrinthine—
Who was the one that made the other sigh and pine?
Who was in the peach orchard, raising flowers divine?
His highness your father is my heart, my soul, my precious, my sweet. How would I not want him?
It is the season when peach trees come into full bloom. Over hills, over vales, acres of peach trees parade acres of peach blossoms, radiant and sweet.
In the lush spring of March, the radiant peach blossoms bloom, like rosy mists and blushing clouds. However many blossoms there are, it is enough to have just one, to be cherished in one’s heart.
The peach blossoms are radiant, the leaves luxuriant, their allure stunning.
I, of course, did my best to excuse myself, while he, naturally, pressed on with all graciousness and courtesy.
In affairs of the heart, scheming is not at all scheming, only part of the play; while playfulness is never just playfulness, but part of the scheme.
In the vast universe (Four Seas and Eight Deserts), there will—there must—be someone who, when he calls your name, gives it such delight, such tenderness, such soul-stirring pathos.
Halos of light rippled and splashed. In the acres of peach trees, pink blossoms bloomed, breathing out sweet perfume. Beneath the rosy clouds and scented mists stood the young man, all dressed in black, his eyebrows as dark as if painted with ink, the hair above his temples as sharply outlined as if cut with a knife.
Ye Hua went off in a hurry just now. He looked nonchalant and distant, but there was a heartiness to that nonchalance and a coyness to that distance. I know, from my observations of romantic affairs—accumulated, I may add, over a hundred thousand years—that with that air and look, he must have been on his way to meet a fair lady.