[Poem] QI SHI (LATE AUTUMN SKY) - A Glimpse of Late Autumn’s Lingering Sorrow

A middle reflection: each verse conveys an almost tangible hush, as though the poet stands amid falling leaves, embracing the acceptance that some dreams cannot last, and heartbreak can be carried softly.

I love how the poem embraces autumn’s quieter sorrow, different from summer’s vibrant heartbreak or winter’s stark gloom. This hush is gentler—like each raindrop or drifting leaf only half-admitted into the poet’s heart.

Compared to Liu Yong’s more famously heartbreak-laden '雨霖铃(寒蝉凄切),' which dwells on parting under a drizzle, '戚氏(晚秋天)' also focuses on loss but from a quieter vantage—here, the hush of late fall sets the stage, forging a subdued acceptance instead of raw parting tears. Both revolve around heartbreak, but each poem turns nature into a soft mirror for unspoken pain.

Short reflection: each line floats on a subdued breeze, gently echoing how heartbreak doesn’t need loud lament—it can settle in quietly, mirroring the hush of a waning autumn day that itself refuses to cling to bright illusions.

The poem’s understated tone magnifies the sense of late autumn, where color fades and illusions slip away, leaving a gentle sorrow in every twilight gust.

A middle observation: the poem’s subdued approach underscores that heartbreak can be experienced as a soft surrender, trusting nature’s seasonal hush to cradle regrets we can’t entirely discard.

A gentle hush saturates each line, capturing a melancholic autumn’s edge as though every leaf drop echoes a quiet ache.

Short but resonant: every verse lets you taste the mild tension between memory and present emptiness, as if the poet quietly replays half-forgotten joys under the twilight hush.

Compared once more with Liu Yong’s own '凤栖梧(伫倚危楼风细细),' which hinges on windy sorrow from a high vantage, ‘戚氏(晚秋天)’ shifts the focus to the mild gloom of autumn’s end. Both revolve around hushed heartbreak, but the seasonal emphasis here intensifies the sense of quiet, half-accepted parting from illusions once cherished.

I love how the poem stirs sorrow without drowning in it. Instead, it invites a measured reflection on how illusions pass just as autumn inevitably fades, urging acceptance rather than anguish.

Sometimes it evokes how modern relationships fizzle out as summer trips end—people returning to daily routines with a mild ache, realizing that fleeting sparks are lost in the hush of approaching winter. The poem’s calm heartbreak parallels that slow fade of illusions.

Sometimes I recall how certain travel vloggers capture out-of-season tourist spots—half-empty walkways lined with golden leaves, an undertone of longing for the crowds that once filled them. The poem’s subdued regret in late fall mirrors that bittersweet mood perfectly.

A middle reflection: at its heart, the poem contends that heartbreak, when approached softly, can align with seasonal transitions, turning sorrow into a gentle acceptance rather than a wild lament.

Compared again with Li Bai’s flamboyant exultation of nature, Liu Yong’s approach remains inward-looking—an introspective hush focusing on personal sorrow tinted by falling leaves. Both reveal nature’s capacity to reflect emotional states, but Li Bai’s roars while Liu Yong quietly sighs.

We sense that the poet stands in late autumn’s hush, neither raging against change nor dancing for joy, but calmly acknowledging heartbreak as part of the season’s slow, inevitable drift into winter.

The poet’s sense of resignation suggests a calm acceptance: illusions have drifted away, yet this mild heartbreak finds an odd solace in the quiet beauty of late autumn’s hush.

Short note: it’s not a loud lament—just a mild descent into the hush of a season’s end, allowing heartbreak to slip between deserted branches in the evening light.

Short reflection: each line underscores that heartbreak can meld with the hush of nature’s decline, forging a moment where personal sorrow seamlessly fuses with autumn’s fading light.

Short but potent: reading it feels like stepping outside at dusk, noticing the season’s chill in the air and sensing that sorrow lingers beneath the calm.

Sometimes I think of modern city dwellers posting social media images of deserted parks in autumn—fallen leaves scattered across benches, capturing that same atmosphere of mild regret and ephemeral beauty found here in Liu Yong’s lines.

Sometimes it resonates with how empty cafés or parks after the high tourist season feel—like you can sense the echoes of a lively past, now softened into a nostalgic hush. The poem’s gentle heartbreak stands akin to that sense of leftover warmth in the emptiness.

Compared again with Du Fu’s heavier portrayals of social upheaval in autumn, Liu Yong leans into personal reflection rather than public lament. Both anchor their poems in a season’s hush, but where Du Fu might see the entire nation’s sorrow, Liu Yong confines it to one heart’s gentle ache in a subdued twilight.