It is not you, no, madam, whom I love,
Nor you either, Juliet, nor you,
Ophelia, nor Beatrice, nor that dove,
Fair-haired Laura with the big eyes; No.

She is in China whom I love just now;
She lives at home and cares for her old parents;
From a tower of porcelain she leans her brow,
By the Yellow River, where haunt the cormorants.

She has upward-slanting eyes, a foot to hold
In your hand-- that small; the colour shed
By lamps is less clear than her coppery gold;
And her long nails are stained with carmine red.

>From her trellis she leans out so far
That the dipping swallows are within her reach,
And like a poet, to the evening star
She sings the willow and the flowering peach.

(translated by A. J. M. Smith)