I
The Southern lass is fair and bright,
Her eyes and brows shame moon and stars.
Her feet in sandals are frost-white,
The crow-head shoes would look like scars.
III
A maiden gathers lotus in the creek;
Singing, she turns round, seeing passers-by.
Smiling, she hides ‘mid lotus blooms her cheek
And won’t appear again: she seems so shy.
V
The waves of Mirror Lake look like moonbeams,
The maiden’s dress like snow on water side.
The rippling dress vies with the rippling stream,
We know not which by which is beautified.