A Girl of Jiangnan
In Jiangnan the customs run loose and wild, They raise their daughters delicate and mild. With idle natures scorning needle's thread, They dress them up to play the pipes instead. No taste for noble music do they seek— Their melodies are all of spring's critique. They boast of beauty, bloom, and youthful grace, Believing eternal spring adorns their face. Yet how they mock the neighbor's working daughter, Who works her loom from dawn till twilight's water. Though weaving wears her body to the bone, The finest silks she'll never call her own.