Arthur Waley
Of marsh-mallows my boat is made,
The ropes are lily-roots.
The pole-star is athwart the sky:
The moon sinks low.
It’s at the ferry I’m plucking lilies.
But it might be the Yellow River--
So afraid you seem of the wind and waves,
So long you tarry at the crossing.[40]
stream. When he does not come, she bitterly suggests that he is as
afraid of the little stream as though it were the Yellow River, the
largest river in China.