Young as he was, Lord Tung
came and went in the Emperor’s palace.
His blouse was pale and yellow of gosling down;
his face and figure were fine as a painting.
Always he rode a snow-footed horse,
whirling, whirling up the red dust,
and the people who lined the roads to watch
would ask each other, “Whose son is this?”Â
Han-shan
from Cold Mountain