By Wei J. Chir, Vision Times
The Autumnal Equinox holds a special place among China’s 24 solar terms. In ancient times, both the spring and autumn equinoxes were marked by elaborate rituals, with the imperial court and hundreds of officials traveling beyond the capital to make ceremonial offerings.
In spring, they prayed for favorable weather and a plentiful growing season. In autumn, the rituals gave thanks for a bountiful harvest, or, in difficult years marked by poor crops and natural disasters, offered an occasion for reflection and repentance.
The Autumnal Equinox arrives when day and night are nearly equal in length. From here, the nights grow longer and the days shorter as autumn settles in. Traditionally regarded as the midpoint of the season, it brings cooler weather, changing colors, and a landscape that has inspired poets for centuries.
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Ancient Chinese poets were especially drawn to autumn, finding in the season everything from beauty and tranquility to loneliness, hardship, and transcendence. But that fascination was hardly confined to China. Centuries later, Percy Bysshe Shelley would summon the fierce winds of autumn in his celebrated “Ode to the West Wind,” while American poet Emily Dickinson captured the season in quieter, more intimate detail.
Across different eras, languages, and cultures, autumn has given poets a way to contemplate nature, and, through it, the human experience. To mark the Autumnal Equinox, here are several poems from East and West that offer distinctly different glimpses of the season. Below is a compilation of a few favorites:
The autumn waters of the Southern Lake are free of mist tonight, (南湖秋水夜無煙,)
How I wish I could ride the current straight up into the sky. (耐可乘流直上天。)
For now, let me borrow a little moonlight from Dongting Lake, (且就洞庭賒月色,)
And take my boat to buy wine at the white clouds’ edge. (將船買酒白雲邊。)
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
In the eighth month, high autumn arrived with roaring winds,
It ripped three layers of thatch right off my roof.
The thatch flew across the river, scattering along the banks,
The higher pieces caught on the tops of tall trees,
While the lower ones swirled down into the muddy ditches.
The village boys to the south take advantage of my old age and weakness,
Heartlessly acting like thieves right before my eyes,
Openly clutching the thatch as they run off into the bamboo grove.
With parched lips and a dry tongue, my cries are utterly useless,
I return home, leaning on my cane, sighing to myself.
In a brief moment, the wind dies down, and the clouds turn as dark as ink,
The autumn sky stretches vast and bleak into the gathering dusk.
My cotton quilt, used for many years, feels as cold as iron,
My restless children kick through the torn lining in their sleep.
The roof leaks above the bed, leaving no spot dry,
The rain falls like thick hemp threads, completely unbroken.
Ever since the ravages of war, I have starved for sleep…
Could I get mansions by the thousands,
To house all the poor scholars under heaven with beaming faces,
Sheltered secure against wind and rain, immovable as a mountain?
Alas! If I could see such a grand house rise before my eyes,
Even if my own shack were ruined and I alone froze to death, I would die content!
Since ancient times, people have mourned autumn’s desolation, (自古逢秋悲寂寥,)
But I say autumn days surpass the mornings of spring. (我言秋日胜春朝。)
A crane soars through the clear sky, breaking through the clouds, (晴空一鹤排云上，)
Carrying my poetic inspiration straight into the blue heavens. (便引诗情到碧霄。)
Besides the Autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze –
A few incisive mornings –
A few Ascetic eves –
Gone – Mr Bryant’s “Golden Rod” –
And Mr Thomson’s “sheaves.”
Still, is the bustle in the brook –
Sealed are the spicy valves –
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many Elves –
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