<Header>
<Author: 李賀>
<Title: 美人梳頭歌>
<Format: 七言古詩>
<Year: 1970>
<BookName: The Poems of Li Ho>
<Translator: J. D. Frodsham>
<TranslatedTitle: Song: A Lovely Girl Combing Her Hair>
<BookPage: 240-241>
<UsedPage: 2>
<Feature: 1, 4>
<End Header>
<Poem>
西施曉夢綃帳寒，
香鬟墮髻半沈檀。
轆轤咿啞轉鳴玉，
驚起芙蓉睡新足。
雙鸞開鏡秋水光，
解鬟臨鏡立象床。
一編香絲雲撒地，
玉釵落處無聲膩。
纖手卻盤老鴉色，
翠滑寶釵簪不得。
春風爛熳惱嬌慵，
十八鬟多無氣力。
妝成𨀞鬌攲不斜，
雲裾數步踏雁沙。
背人不語向何處，
下階自折櫻桃花。
<End Poem>
<Translation>
HSI-SHIH dreaming at dawn,
In the cool of silken curtains.
Scented coils of her falling chignon,
Half aloes, half sandalwood.

The turning windlass of the well,
Creaking like singing jade,
Wakes with a start this lotus blossom,
That has newly slept its fill.

Twin simurghs appear on her mirror,
An autumn pool of light.
She loosens her tresses before the mirror,
Stands on her ivory bed.

A single skein of perfumed silk,
Clouds cast on the floor,
Noiseless the jade comb tumbles down
From her lustrous hair.

Delicate fingers keep pushing back the coils—
Colour of an old rook's plumes,
Blue-black and sleek - the jewelled comb
And hairpin cannot hold.
Light-heartedly the spring breeze vexes
Her lovely disarray.
After tying eighteen knots or more,
Her strength has fled.

Her toilet over, the well-dressed chignon
Sits firm and does not slip
In cloudy skirts, she measures her step,
A goose treading the sand,
She turns away without speaking—
Where is she off to now?
Just down the steps to pick herself
A spray of cherry blossom.
<End Translation>
<Formatted Translation>
HSI-SHIH dreaming at dawn, in the cool of silken curtains.
Scented coils of her falling chignon, half aloes, half sandalwood.

The turning windlass of the well, creaking like singing jade,
Wakes with a start this lotus blossom, that has newly slept its fill.

Twin simurghs appear on her mirror, an autumn pool of light.
She loosens her tresses before the mirror, stands on her ivory bed.

A single skein of perfumed silk, clouds cast on the floor,
Noiseless the jade comb tumbles down from her lustrous hair.

Delicate fingers keep pushing back the coils—colour of an old rook's plumes,
Blue-black and sleek - the jewelled comb and hairpin cannot hold.
Light-heartedly the spring breeze vexes her lovely disarray.
After tying eighteen knots or more, her strength has fled.

Her toilet over, the well-dressed chignon sits firm and does not slip
In cloudy skirts, she measures her step, a goose treading the sand,
She turns away without speaking—where is she off to now?
Just down the steps to pick herself a spray of cherry blossom.
<End Formatted Translation>