No More Learning

Do you not see
The graves on the top of Black Horse Hill[66] and the tombs at
Mo-ling? [67]
What is left but the sighing wind blowing in the tangled grasses?
Yes, and what is more,
The Dark and Primal Master of Sages in his five thousand words[68]
Never spoke of herbs,
Never spoke of "hsien,"
Nor spoke of soaring in broad daylight up to the blue heaven.

[63] The "First Emperor," 259-210 B. C.

[64] Wu Ti, 156-87 B. C.

[65] Ssu Shih. Giles, 1276.

[66] The burial-places of these two Emperors.

[67] _Ibid. _

[68] Lao-tz? , in the Tao T? Ching.


THE TWO RED TOWERS

(A SATIRE AGAINST CLERICALISM)

The Two Red Towers
North and south rise facing each other.
I beg to ask, to whom do they belong?
To the two Princes of the period Ch? ng Yuan. [69]
The two Princes blew on their flutes and drew down fairies from the
sky,
Who carried them off through the Five Clouds, soaring away to Heaven.
Their halls and houses, that they could not take with them,
Were turned into Temples planted in the Dust of the World.
In the tiring-rooms and dancers' towers all is silent and still;
Only the willows like dancers' arms, and the pond like a mirror.
When the flowers are falling at yellow twilight, when things are sad
and hushed,
One does not hear songs and flutes, but only chimes and bells.
The Imperial Patent on the Temple doors is written in letters of
gold;
For nuns' quarters and monks' cells ample space is allowed.
For green moss and bright moonlight--plenty of room provided;
In a hovel opposite is a sick man who has hardly room to lie down.
I remember once when at P'ing-yang they were building a great man's
house
How it swallowed up the housing space of thousands of ordinary men.
The Immortals[70] are leaving us, two by two, and their houses are
turned into Temples;
I begin to fear that the whole world will become a vast convent.

[69] 785-805.

[70] Hsien Tsung's brothers?


THE CHARCOAL-SELLER

(A SATIRE AGAINST "KOMMANDATUR")

An old charcoal-seller
Cutting wood and burning charcoal in the forests of the Southern
Mountain.
His face, stained with dust and ashes, has turned to the colour of
smoke.
The hair on his temples is streaked with gray: his ten fingers are
black.
The money he gets by selling charcoal, how far does it go?
It is just enough to clothe his limbs and put food in his mouth.
Although, alas, the coat on his back is a coat without lining.
He hopes for the coming of cold weather, to send up the price of
coal!
Last night, outside the city,--a whole foot of snow;
At dawn he drives the charcoal wagon along the frozen ruts.
Oxen,--weary; man,--hungry: the sun, already high;
Outside the Gate, to the south of the Market, at last they stop in
the mud.
Suddenly, a pair of prancing horsemen. Who can it be coming?
A public official in a yellow coat and a boy in a white shirt.
In their hands they hold a written warrant: on their tongues--the
words of an order;
They turn back the wagon and curse the oxen, leading them off to the
north.
A whole wagon of charcoal,
More than a thousand pieces!
If officials choose to take it away, the woodman may not complain.
Half a piece of red silk and a single yard of damask,
The Courtiers have tied to the oxen's collar, as the price
of a wagon of coal!


THE POLITICIAN

I was going to the City to sell the herbs I had plucked;
On the way I rested by some trees at the Blue Gate.
Along the road there came a horseman riding;
Whose face was pale with a strange look of dread.
Friends and relations, waiting to say good-bye,
Pressed at his side, but he did not dare to pause.
I, in wonder, asked the people about me
Who he was and what had happened to him.
They told me this was a Privy Councillor
Whose grave duties were like the pivot of State.
His food allowance was ten thousand cash;
Three times a day the Emperor came to his house.
Yesterday he was called to a meeting of Heroes:
To-day he is banished to the country of Yai-chou.
So always, the Counsellors of Kings;
Favour and ruin changed between dawn and dusk!
Green, green,--the grass of the Eastern Suburb;
And amid the grass, a road that leads to the hills.
Resting in peace among the white clouds,
At last he has made a "coup" that cannot fail!


THE OLD MAN WITH THE BROKEN ARM

(A SATIRE ON MILITARISM)

At Hsin-f? ng an old man--four-score and eight;
The hair on his head and the hair of his eyebrows--white as the
new snow.
Leaning on the shoulders of his great-grandchildren, he walks in
front of the Inn;
With his left arm he leans on their shoulders; his right arm is
broken.
I asked the old man how many years had passed since he broke his arm;
I also asked the cause of the injury, how and why it happened?
The old man said he was born and reared in the District of Hsin-f? ng;
At the time of his birth--a wise reign; no wars or discords.
"Often I listened in the Pear-Tree Garden to the sound of flute and
song;
Naught I knew of banner and lance; nothing of arrow or bow.
Then came the wars of T'ien-pao[71] and the great levy of men;
Of three men in each house,--one man was taken.
And those to whom the lot fell, where were they taken to?
Five months' journey, a thousand miles--away to Yun-nan.
We heard it said that in Yun-nan there flows the Lu River;
As the flowers fall from the pepper-trees, poisonous vapours rise.
When the great army waded across, the water seethed like a cauldron;
When barely ten had entered the water, two or three were dead.
To the north of my village, to the south of my village the sound of
weeping and wailing.
Children parting from fathers and mothers; husbands parting from
wives.
Everyone says that in expeditions against the Min tribes
Of a million men who are sent out, not one returns.
I, that am old, was then twenty-four;
My name and fore-name were written down in the rolls of the Board of
War.
In the depth of the night not daring to let any one know
I secretly took a huge stone and dashed it against my arm.
For drawing the bow and waving the banner now wholly unfit;
I knew henceforward I should not be sent to fight in Yun-nan.
Bones broken and sinews wounded could not fail to hurt;
I was ready enough to bear pain, if only I got back home.
My arm--broken ever since; it was sixty years ago.
One limb, although destroyed,--whole body safe!
But even now on winter nights when the wind and rain blow
From evening on till day's dawn I cannot sleep for pain.
Not sleeping for pain
Is a small thing to bear,
Compared with the joy of being alive when all the rest are dead.
For otherwise, years ago, at the ford of Lu River
My body would have died and my soul hovered by the bones that no one
gathered.
A ghost, I'd have wandered in Yun-nan, always looking for home.
Over the graves of ten thousand soldiers, mournfully hovering. "
So the old man spoke.
And I bid you listen to his words
Have you not heard
That the Prime Minister of K'ai-yuan,[72] Sung K'ai-fu,
Did not reward frontier exploits, lest a spirit of aggression should
prevail?
And have you not heard
That the Prime Minister of T'ien-Pao, Yang Kuo-chung[73]
Desiring to win imperial favour, started a frontier war?
But long before he could win the war, people had lost their temper;
Ask the man with the broken arm in the village of Hsin-f? ng?

[71] A. D. 742-755.

[72] 713-742.

[73] Cousin of the notorious mistress of Ming-huang, Yang Kuei-fei.


KEPT WAITING IN THE BOAT AT CHIU-K'OU TEN DAYS BY AN ADVERSE WIND

White billows and huge waves block the river crossing;
Wherever I go, danger and difficulty; whatever I do, failure.
Just as in my worldly career I wander and lose the road,
So when I come to the river crossing, I am stopped by contrary winds.
Of fishes and prawns sodden in the rain the smell fills my nostrils;
With the stings of insects that come with the fog, my whole body is
sore.
I am growing old, time flies, and my short span runs out.
While I sit in a boat at Chiu-k'ou, wasting ten days!


ON BOARD SHIP: READING YUAN CH? N'S POEMS

I take your poems in my hand and read them beside the candle;
The poems are finished: the candle is low: dawn not yet come.
With sore eyes by the guttering candle still I sit in the dark,
Listening to waves that, driven by the wind, strike the prow of
the ship.


ARRIVING AT HSUN-YANG

(TWO POEMS)

(1)

A bend of the river brings into view two triumphal arches;
That is the gate in the western wall of the suburbs of Hsun-yang.
I have still to travel in my solitary boat three or four leagues--
By misty waters and rainy sands, while the yellow dusk thickens.

(2)

We are almost come to Hsun-yang: how my thoughts are stirred
As we pass to the south of Yu Liang's[74] tower and the east of
P'? n Port.
The forest trees are leafless and withered,--after the mountain
rain;
The roofs of the houses are hidden low among the river mists.
The horses, fed on water grass, are too weak to carry their load;
The cottage walls of wattle and thatch let the wind blow on one's
bed.
In the distance I see red-wheeled coaches driving from the town-gate;
They have taken the trouble, these civil people, to meet their new
Prefect!

[74] Died A. D. 340. Giles, 2526.


MADLY SINGING IN THE MOUNTAINS

There is no one among men that has not a special failing:
And my failing consists in writing verses.
I have broken away from the thousand ties of life:
But this infirmity still remains behind.
Each time that I look at a fine landscape:
Each time that I meet a loved friend,
I raise my voice and recite a stanza of poetry
And am glad as though a God had crossed my path.
Ever since the day I was banished to Hsun-yang
Half my time I have lived among the hills.
And often, when I have finished a new poem,
Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.
I lean my body on the banks of white stone:
I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch.
My mad singing startles the valleys and hills:
The apes and birds all come to peep.
Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world,
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men.


RELEASING A MIGRANT "YEN" (WILD GOOSE)

At Nine Rivers,[75] in the tenth year,[76] in winter,--heavy snow;
The river-water covered with ice and the forests broken with their
load. [77]
The birds of the air, hungry and cold, went flying east and west;
And with them flew a migrant "yen," loudly clamouring for food.
Among the snow it pecked for grass; and rested on the surface of the
ice:
It tried with its wings to scale the sky; but its tired flight was
slow.
The boys of the river spread a net and caught the bird as it flew;
They took it in their hands to the city-market and sold it there
alive.
I that was once a man of the North am now an exile here:
Bird and man, in their different kind, are each strangers in the
south.
And because the sight of an exiled bird wounded an exile's heart,
I paid your ransom and set you free, and you flew away to the clouds.
Yen, Yen, flying to the clouds, tell me, whither shall you go?
Of all things I bid you, do not fly to the land of the north-west
In Huai-hsi there are rebel bands[78] that have not been subdued;
And a thousand thousand armoured men have long been camped in war.
The official army and the rebel army have grown old in their opposite
trenches;
The soldier's rations have grown so small, they'll be glad of even
you.
The brave boys, in their hungry plight, will shoot you and eat your
flesh;
They will pluck from your body those long feathers and make them into
arrow-wings!

[75] Kiukiang, the poet's place of exile.

[76] A. D. 815. His first winter at Kiukiang.

[77] By the weight of snow.

[78] The revolt of Wu Yuan-chi.


TO A PORTRAIT PAINTER WHO DESIRED HIM TO SIT

_You_, so bravely splashing reds and blues!
Just when _I_ am getting wrinkled and old.
Why should you waste the moments of inspiration
Tracing the withered limbs of a sick man?
Tall, tall is the Palace of Ch'i-lin;[79]
But my deeds have not been frescoed on its walls.
Minutely limned on a foot of painting silk--
What can I do with a portrait such as _that_?

[79] One of the "Record Offices" of the T'ang dynasty, where meritorious
deeds were illustrated on the walls.


SEPARATION

Yesterday I heard that such-a-one was gone;
This morning they tell me that so-and-so is dead.
Of friends and acquaintances more than two-thirds
Have suffered change and passed to the Land of Ghosts.
Those that are gone I shall not see again;
They, alas, are for ever finished and done.
Those that are left,--where are they now?
They are all scattered,--a thousand miles away.
Those I have known and loved through all my life,
On the fingers of my hand--how many do I count?
Only the prefects of T'ung, Kuo and Li
And F? ng Province--just those four. [80]
Longing for each other we are all grown gray;
Through the Fleeting World rolled like a wave in the stream.
Alas that the feasts and frolics of old days
Have withered and vanished, bringing us to this!
When shall we meet and drink a cup of wine
And laughing gaze into each other's eyes?

[80] Yuan Ch? n (d. 831), Ts'ui Hsuan-liang (d. 833), Liu Yu-hsi
(d. 842), and Li Chien (d. 821).


HAVING CLIMBED TO THE TOPMOST PEAK OF THE INCENSE-BURNER MOUNTAIN

Up and up, the Incense-burner Peak!
In my heart is stored what my eyes and ears perceived.
All the year--detained by official business;
To-day at last I got a chance to go.
Grasping the creepers, I clung to dangerous rocks;
My hands and feet--weary with groping for hold.
There came with me three or four friends,
But two friends dared not go further.
At last we reached the topmost crest of the Peak;
My eyes were blinded, my soul rocked and reeled.
The chasm beneath me--ten thousand feet;
The ground I stood on, only a foot wide.
If you have not exhausted the scope of seeing and hearing,
How can you realize the wideness of the world?
The waters of the River looked narrow as a ribbon,
P'? n Castle smaller than a man's fist.
How it clings, the dust of the world's halter!
It chokes my limbs: I cannot shake it away.
Thinking of retirement,[81] I heaved an envious sigh,
Then, with lowered head, came back to the Ants' Nest.

[81] _I. e. _, retirement from office.


EATING BAMBOO-SHOOTS

My new Province is a land of bamboo-groves:
Their shoots in spring fill the valleys and hills.
The mountain woodman cuts an armful of them
And brings them down to sell at the early market.
Things are cheap in proportion as they are common;
For two farthings, I buy a whole bundle.
I put the shoots in a great earthen pot
And heat them up along with boiling rice.
The purple nodules broken,--like an old brocade;
The white skin opened,--like new pearls.
Now every day I eat them recklessly;
For a long time I have not touched meat.
All the time I was living at Lo-yang
They could not give me enough to suit my taste,
Now I can have as many shoots as I please;
For each breath of the south-wind makes a new bamboo!


THE RED COCKATOO

Sent as a present from Annam--
A red cockatoo.
Coloured like the peach-tree blossom,
Speaking with the speech of men.
And they did to it what is always done
To the learned and eloquent.
They took a cage with stout bars
And shut it up inside.


AFTER LUNCH

After lunch--one short nap:
On waking up--two cups of tea.
Raising my head, I see the sun's light
Once again slanting to the south-west.
Those who are happy regret the shortness of the day;
Those who are sad tire of the year's sloth.
But those whose hearts are devoid of joy or sadness
Just go on living, regardless of "short" or "long. "


ALARM AT FIRST ENTERING THE YANG-TZE GORGES

Written in 818, when he was being towed up the rapids to Chung-chou.

Above, a mountain ten thousand feet high:
Below, a river a thousand fathoms deep.
A strip of green, walled by cliffs of stone:
Wide enough for the passage of a single reed. [82]
At Chu-t'ang a straight cleft yawns:
At Yen-yu islands block the stream.
Long before night the walls are black with dusk;
Without wind white waves rise.
The big rocks are like a flat sword:
The little rocks resemble ivory tusks.

[82] See Odes, v, 7.

* * * * *

We are stuck fast and cannot move a step.
How much the less, three hundred miles? [83]
Frail and slender, the twisted-bamboo rope:
Weak, the dangerous hold of the towers' feet.
A single slip--the whole convoy lost:
And _my_ life hangs on _this_ thread!
I have heard a saying "He that has an upright heart
Shall walk scathless through the lands of Man and Mo.
"[84]
How can I believe that since the world began
In every shipwreck none have drowned but rogues?
And how can I, born in evil days[85]
And fresh from failure,[86] ask a kindness of Fate?
Often I fear that these un-talented limbs
Will be laid at last in an un-named grave!

[83] The distance to Chung-chou.

[84] Dangerous savages.

[85] Of civil war.

[86] Alluding to his renewed banishment.


ON BEING REMOVED FROM HSUN-YANG AND SENT TO CHUNG-CHOU

A remote place in the mountains of Pa (Ssech'uan)

Before this, when I was stationed at Hsun-yang,
Already I regretted the fewness of friends and guests.
Suddenly, suddenly,--bearing a stricken heart
I left the gates, with nothing to comfort me.
Henceforward,--relegated to deep seclusion
In a bottomless gorge, flanked by precipitous mountains,
Five months on end the passage of boats is stopped
By the piled billows that toss and leap like colts.
The inhabitants of Pa resemble wild apes;
Fierce and lusty, they fill the mountains and prairies.
Among such as these I cannot hope for friends
And am pleased with anyone who is even remotely human!


PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE EASTERN EMBANKMENT

Written when Governor of Chung-Chou

I took money and bought flowering trees
And planted them out on the bank to the east of the Keep.
I simply bought whatever had most blooms,
Not caring whether peach, apricot, or plum.
A hundred fruits, all mixed up together;
A thousand branches, flowering in due rotation.
Each has its season coming early or late;
But to all alike the fertile soil is kind.
The red flowers hang like a heavy mist;
The white flowers gleam like a fall of snow.
The wandering bees cannot bear to leave them;
The sweet birds also come there to roost.
In front there flows an ever-running stream;
Beneath there is built a little flat terrace.
Sometimes I sweep the flagstones of the terrace;
Sometimes, in the wind, I raise my cup and drink.
The flower-branches screen my head from the sun;
The flower-buds fall down into my lap.
Alone drinking, alone singing my songs
I do not notice that the moon is level with the steps.
The people of Pa do not care for flowers;
All the spring no one has come to look.
But their Governor General, alone with his cup of wine
Sits till evening and will not move from the place!


CHILDREN

Written _circa_ 820

My niece, who is six years old, is called "Miss Tortoise";
My daughter of three,--little "Summer Dress. "
One is beginning to learn to joke and talk;
The other can already recite poems and songs.
At morning they play clinging about my feet;
At night they sleep pillowed against my dress.
Why, children, did you reach the world so late,
Coming to me just when my years are spent?
Young things draw our feelings to them;
Old people easily give their hearts.
The sweetest vintage at last turns sour;
The full moon in the end begins to wane.
And so with men the bonds of love and affection
Soon may change to a load of sorrow and care.
But all the world is bound by love's ties;
Why did I think that I alone should escape?


PRUNING TREES

Trees growing--right in front of my window;
The trees are high and the leaves grow thick.
Sad alas! the distant mountain view
Obscured by this, dimly shows between.
One morning I took knife and axe;
With my own hand I lopped the branches off.
Ten thousand leaves fall about my head;
A thousand hills came before my eyes.
Suddenly, as when clouds or mists break
And straight through, the blue sky appears;
Again, like the face of a friend one has loved
Seen at last after an age of parting.
First there came a gentle wind blowing;
One by one the birds flew back to the tree.
To ease my mind I gazed to the South East;
As my eyes wandered, my thoughts went far away.
Of men there is none that has not some preference;
Of things there is none but mixes good with ill.
It was not that I did not love the tender branches;
But better still,--to see the green hills!


BEING VISITED BY A FRIEND DURING ILLNESS

I have been ill so long that I do not count the days;
At the southern window, evening--and again evening.
Sadly chirping in the grasses under my eaves
The winter sparrows morning and evening sing.
By an effort I rise and lean heavily on my bed;
Tottering I step towards the door of the courtyard.
By chance I meet a friend who is coming to see me;
Just as if I had gone specially to meet him.
They took my couch and placed it in the setting sun;
They spread my rug and I leaned on the balcony-pillar.
Tranquil talk was better than any medicine;
Gradually the feelings came back to my numbed heart.


ON THE WAY TO HANGCHOW: ANCHORED ON THE RIVER AT NIGHT

Little sleeping and much grieving,--the traveller
Rises at midnight and looks back towards home.
The sands are bright with moonlight that joins the shores;
The sail is white with dew that has covered the boat.
Nearing the sea, the river grows broader and broader:
Approaching autumn,--the nights longer and longer.
Thirty times we have slept amid mists and waves,
And still we have not reached Hang-chow!


STOPPING THE NIGHT AT JUNG-YANG

I grew up at Jung-yang;
I was still young when I left.
On and on,--forty years passed
Till again I stayed for the night at Jung-yang.
When I went away, I was only eleven or twelve;
This year I am turned fifty-six.
Yet thinking back to the times of my childish games,
Whole and undimmed, still they rise before me.
The old houses have all disappeared;
Down in the village none of my people are left.
It is not only that streets and buildings have changed;
But steep is level and level changed to steep!
Alone unchanged, the waters of Ch'iu and Yu
Passionless,--flow in their old course.


THE SILVER SPOON

While on the road to his new province, Hang-chow, in 822, he sends a
silver spoon to his niece A-kuei, whom he had been obliged to leave
behind with her nurse, old Mrs. Ts'ao.

To distant service my heart is well accustomed;
When I left home, it wasn't _that_ which was difficult
But because I had to leave Miss Kuei at home--
For this it was that tears filled my eyes.
Little girls ought to be daintily fed:
Mrs. Ts'ao, please see to this!
That's why I've packed and sent a silver spoon;
You will think of me and eat up your food nicely!


THE HAT GIVEN TO THE POET BY LI CHIEN

Long ago to a white-haired gentleman
You made the present of a black gauze hat.
The gauze hat still sits on my head;
But you already are gone to the Nether Springs.
The thing is old, but still fit to wear;
The man is gone and will never be seen again.
Out on the hill the moon is shining to-night
And the trees on your tomb are swayed by the autumn wind.


THE BIG RUG

That so many of the poor should suffer from cold what can we do to
prevent?
To bring warmth to a single body is not much use.
I wish I had a big rug ten thousand feet long,
Which at one time could cover up every inch of the City.


AFTER GETTING DRUNK, BECOMING SOBER IN THE NIGHT

Our party scattered at yellow dusk and I came home to bed;
I woke at midnight and went for a walk, leaning heavily on a friend.
As I lay on my pillow my vinous complexion, soothed by sleep, grew
sober;
In front of the tower the ocean moon, accompanying the tide, had
risen.
The swallows, about to return to the beams, went back to roost
again;
The candle at my window, just going out, suddenly revived its light.
All the time till dawn came, still my thoughts were muddled;
And in my ears something sounded like the music of flutes and
strings.


REALIZING THE FUTILITY OF LIFE

Written on the wall of a priest's cell, _circa_ 828

Ever since the time when I was a lusty boy
Down till now when I am ill and old,
The things I have cared for have been different at different times,
But my being _busy_, _that_ has never changed.
_Then_ on the shore,--building sand-pagodas;
_Now_, at Court, covered with tinkling jade.
This and that,--equally childish games,
Things whose substance passes in a moment of time!
While the hands are busy, the heart cannot understand;
When there are no Scriptures, then Doctrine is sound. [87]
Even should one zealously strive to learn the Way,
That very striving will make one's error more.

[87] This is the teaching of the Dhyana Sect.


RISING LATE AND PLAYING WITH A-TS'UI, AGED TWO

Written in 831

All the morning I have lain perversely in bed;
Now at dusk I rise with many yawns.
My warm stove is quick to get ablaze;
At the cold mirror I am slow in doing my hair.
With melted snow I boil fragrant tea;
Seasoned with curds I cook a milk-pudding.
At my sloth and greed there is no one but me to laugh;
My cheerful vigour none but myself knows.
The taste of my wine is mild and works no poison;
The notes of my harp are soft and bring no sadness.
To the Three Joys in the book of Mencius[88]
I have added the fourth of playing with my baby-boy.

[88] "Mencius," bk. vii, pt. i, 20.


ON A BOX CONTAINING HIS OWN WORKS

I break up cypress and make a book-box;
The box well-made,--and the cypress-wood tough.
In it shall be kept what author's works?
The inscription says PO LO-T'IEN.
All my life has been spent in writing books,
From when I was young till now that I am old.
First and last,--seventy whole volumes;
Big and little,--three thousand themes. [89]
Well I know in the end they'll be scattered and lost;
But I cannot bear to see them thrown away
With my own hand I open and shut the locks,
And put it carefully in front of the book-curtain.
I am like T? ng Pai-tao;[90]
But to-day there is not any Wang Ts'an. [91]
All I can do is to divide them among my daughters
To be left by them to give to my grandchildren.

[89] _I. e. _, separate poems, essays, etc.

[90] Who was obliged to abandon his only child on the roadside.

[91] Who rescued a foundling.


ON BEING SIXTY

Addressed to Liu M? ng-t? , who had asked for a poem. He was the same
age as Po Chu-i.

Between thirty and forty, one is distracted by the Five Lusts;
Between seventy and eighty, one is a prey to a hundred diseases.
But from fifty to sixty one is free from all ills;
Calm and still--the heart enjoys rest.
I have put behind me Love and Greed; I have done with Profit and
Fame;
I am still short of illness and decay and far from decrepit age.
Strength of limb I still possess to seek the rivers and hills;
Still my heart has spirit enough to listen to flutes and strings.
At leisure I open new wine and taste several cups;
Drunken I recall old poems and sing a whole volume.
M? ng-t? has asked for a poem and herewith I exhort him
Not to complain of three-score, "the time of obedient ears. "[92]

[92] Confucius said that it was not till _sixty_ that "his ears obeyed
him. " This age was therefore called "the time of obedient ears. "


CLIMBING THE TERRACE OF KUAN-YIN AND LOOKING AT THE CITY

Hundreds of houses, thousands of houses,--like a chess-board.
The twelve streets like a field planted with rows of cabbage.
In the distance perceptible, dim, dim--the fire of approaching dawn;
And a single row of stars lying to the west of the Five Gates.


CLIMBING THE LING YING TERRACE AND LOOKING NORTH

Mounting on high I begin to realize the smallness of Man's Domain;
Gazing into distance I begin to know the vanity of the Carnal World.
I turn my head and hurry home--back to the Court and Market,
A single grain of rice falling--into the Great Barn.


GOING TO THE MOUNTAINS WITH A LITTLE DANCING GIRL, AGED FIFTEEN

Written when the poet was about sixty-five

Two top-knots not yet plaited into one.
Of thirty years--just beyond half.
You who are really a lady of silks and satins
Are now become my hill and stream companion!
At the spring fountains together we splash and play:
On the lovely trees together we climb and sport.
Her cheeks grow rosy, as she quickens her sleeve-dancing:
Her brows grow sad, as she slows her song's tune.
Don't go singing the Song of the Willow Branches,[93]
When there's no one here with a heart for you to break!

[93] A plaintive love-song, to which Po Chu-i had himself written words.


DREAMING OF YUAN CH? N

This was written eight years after Yuan Ch? n's death, when Po-Chu-i
was sixty-eight.

At night you came and took my hand and we wandered together in my
dream;
When I woke in the morning there was no one to stop the tears that
fell on my handkerchief.
On the banks of the Ch'ang my aged body three times[94] has passed
through sickness;
At Hsien-yang[95] to the grasses on your grave eight times has
autumn come.
You lie buried beneath the springs and your bones are mingled with
the clay.
I--lodging in the world of men; my hair white as snow.
A-wei and Han-lang[96] both followed in their turn;
Among the shadows of the Terrace of Night did you know them or not?

[94] Since you died.

[95] Near Ch'ang-an, modern Si-ngan-fu.

[96] Affectionate names of Li Chien and Ts'ui Hsuan-liang.


A DREAM OF MOUNTAINEERING

Written when he was over seventy

At night, in my dream, I stoutly climbed a mountain.
Going out alone with my staff of holly-wood.
A thousand crags, a hundred hundred valleys--
In my dream-journey none were unexplored
And all the while my feet never grew tired
And my step was as strong as in my young days.
Can it be that when the mind travels backward
The body also returns to its old state?
And can it be, as between body and soul,
That the body may languish, while the soul is still strong?
Soul and body--both are vanities:
Dreaming and waking--both alike unreal.
In the day my feet are palsied and tottering;
In the night my steps go striding over the hills.
As day and night are divided in equal parts--
Between the two, I _get_ as much as I _lose_.


EASE

Congratulating himself on the comforts of his life after his
retirement from office. Written _circa_ 844.

Lined coat, warm cap and easy felt slippers,
In the little tower, at the low window, sitting over the sunken
brazier.
Body at rest, heart at peace; no need to rise early.
I wonder if the courtiers at the Western Capital know of these
things, or not?


ON HEARING SOMEONE SING A POEM BY YUAN CH? N

Written long after Ch? n's death

No new poems his brush will trace:
Even his fame is dead.
His old poems are deep in dust
At the bottom of boxes and cupboards.
Once lately, when someone was singing,
Suddenly I heard a verse--
Before I had time to catch the words
A pain had stabbed my heart.


THE PHILOSOPHERS

LAO-TZ?

"Those who speak know nothing;
Those who know are silent. "
These words, as I am told,
Were spoken by Lao-tz? .
If we are to believe that Lao-tz?
Was himself _one who knew_,
How comes it that he wrote a book
Of five thousand words?

CHUANG-TZ? , THE MONIST

Chuang-tz? levels all things
And reduces them to the same Monad.
But _I_ say that even in their sameness
Difference may be found.
Although in following the promptings of their nature
They display the same tendency,
Yet it seems to me that in some ways
A phoenix is superior to a reptile!


TAOISM AND BUDDHISM

Written shortly before his death

A traveller came from across the seas
Telling of strange sights.
"In a deep fold of the sea-hills
I saw a terrace and tower.
In the midst there stood a Fairy Temple
With one niche empty.
They all told me this was waiting
For Lo-t'ien to come. "

Traveller, I have studied the Empty Gate;[97]
I am no disciple of Fairies
The story you have just told
Is nothing but an idle tale.
The hills of ocean shall never be
Lo-t'ien's home.
When I leave the earth it will be to go
To the Heaven of Bliss Fulfilled. [98]

[97] Buddhism. The poem is quite frivolous, as is shown by his claim to
Bodhisattva-hood.

[98] The "tushita" Heaven, where Bodhisattvas wait till it is time for
them to appear on earth as Buddhas.


LAST POEM

* * * * *

They have put my bed beside the unpainted screen;
They have shifted my stove in front of the blue curtain.
I listen to my grandchildren, reading me a book;
I watch the servants, heating up my soup.
With rapid pencil I answer the poems of friends;
I feel in my pockets and pull out medicine-money.
When this superintendence of trifling affairs is done,
I lie back on my pillows and sleep with my face to the
South.


THE END


CHISWICK PRESS: PRINTED BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.


* * * * *


Transcriber's Note

The half-title page has been removed from the text.

The following printed errata have been incorporated into the text:

P. 21, heading, for BIOGRAPHICAL read BIBLIOGRAPHICAL.
P. 27, l. 7 ? _single of_ ? _single one of_.
P. 29, l. 9 ? _eat_ ? _ate_.
P.