The Death Of Li Po reflections Of The Moon Poem by James McLain

Beneath the willows, Li Po lay,
A cup of wine to end the day.
The moonlight wove its silver thread,
Through ancient rivers, soft his bed.

He sang of stars, of love, of pain,
Of fleeting lives, like autumn's rain.
The mountain whispered back his name,
The echo lingered, pure and strong.

Upon the stream, the moonlight danced,
A ghostly lover, pale, entranced.
Li Po, enraptured, raised his hand,
To grasp the glow, to understand.

The river laughed; it pulled him deep,
Its arms a cradle for his sleep.
No mortal cry, no mournful shout,
Just moonlit ripples fanning out.

Now poets speak of how he died—
By moonlight's lure, dreaming dreams of wine and bread.