No More Learning

I sang--I laughed--I boasted of my ruddy face.
I do not realize that now, suddenly, I am old.
With joy I see the Spring wind return.
It is a pity that we must part, but let us make the best of it and
be happy.
We walk to and fro among the peach-trees and plum-trees.
We look at the flowers and drink excellent wine.
We listen to the birds and climb a little way up the bright hills.
Soon evening comes and the bamboo grove is silent.
There is no one--I shut my door.




IN THE PROVINCE OF LU, TO THE EAST OF THE STONE GATE MOUNTAIN, TAKING
LEAVE OF TU FU

BY LI T'AI-PO


When drunk, we were divided; but we have been together again for
several days.
We have climbed everywhere, to every pool and ledge.
When, on the Stone Gate Road,
Shall we pour from the golden flagon again?
The Autumn leaves drop into the Four Waters,
The Ch'u Mountain is brightly reflected in the colour of the lake.
We are flying like thistledown, each to a different distance;
Pending this, we drain the cups in our hands.




THE MOON OVER THE MOUNTAIN PASS

BY LI T'AI-PO


The bright moon rises behind the Heaven-high Mountain,
A sea of clouds blows along the pale, wide sky.
The far-off wind has come from nearly ten thousand _li_,
It has blown across the Jade Gate Pass.
Down the Po Têng Road went the people of Han
To waylay the men of Hu beside the Bright Green Bay.
From the beginning, of those who go into battle,
Not one man is seen returning.
The exiled Official gazes at the frontier town,
He thinks of his return home, and his face is very bitter.
Surely to-night, in the distant cupola,
He sighs, and draws heavy breaths. How then can rest be his?




THE TAKING-UP OF ARMS

BY LI T'AI-PO

A hundred battles, the sandy fields of battles, armour broken into
fragments.
To the South of the city they are already shut in and surrounded by
many layers of men.
They rush out from their cantonments. They shoot and kill the
General of the Barbarians.
A single officer leads the routed soldiers of the "Thousand
Horsemen" returning whence they came.




A SONG OF THE REST-HOUSE OF DEEP TROUBLE

BY LI T'AI-PO


At Chin Ling, the tavern where travellers part is called the
Rest-House of Deep Trouble.
The creeping grass spreads far, far, from the roadside where it
started.
There is no end to the ancient sorrow, as water flows to the East.
Grief is in the wind of this place, burning grief in the white aspen.
Like K'ang Lo I climb on board the dull travelling boat.
I hum softly "On the Clear Streams Flies the Night Frost. "
It is said that, long ago, on the Ox Island Hill, songs were sung
which blended the five colours.
Now do I not equal Hsieh, and the youth of the House of Yüan?
The bitter bamboos make a cold sound, swaying in the Autumn moonlight.
I pass the night alone, desolate behind the reed-blinds, and dream
of returning to my distant home.




THE "LOOKING-FOR-HUSBAND" ROCK

BY LI T'AI-PO


In the attitude, and with the manner, of the woman of old,
Full of grief, she stands in the glorious morning light.
The dew is like the tears of to-day;
The mosses like the garments of years ago.
Her resentment is that of the Woman of the Hsiang River;
Her silence that of the concubine of the King of Ch'u.
Still and solitary in the sweet-scented mist,
As if waiting for her husband's return.




AFTER BEING SEPARATED FOR A LONG TIME

BY LI T'AI-PO


How many Springs have we been apart? You do not come home.
Five times have I seen the cherry-blossoms from the jade window,
Besides there are the "embroidered character letters. "
You must sigh as you break the seals.
When this happens, the agony of my longing must stop your heart.
I have ceased to wear the cloud head-dress. I have stopped combing
and dressing the green-black hair on my temples.
My sorrow is like a whirling gale--like a flurry of white snow.
Last year I sent a letter to the Hill of the Bright Ledge telling
you these things;
The letter I send this year will again implore you.

East wind--Oh-h-h-h!
East wind, blow for me.
Make the floating cloud come Westward.
I wait his coming, and he does not come.
The fallen flower lies quietly, quietly, thrown upon the green moss.




BITTER JEALOUSY IN THE PALACE OF THE HIGH GATE

BY LI T'AI-PO


I

The Heavens have revolved. The "Northern Measure" hangs above the
Western wing.
In the Gold House, there is no one; fireflies flit to and fro.
Moonlight seeks to enter the Palace of the High Gate,
To one in the centre of the Palace it brings an added grief.


II

Unending grief in the Cassia Hall. Spring is forgotten.
Autumn dust rises up on the four sides of the Yellow Gold House.
At night, the bright mirror hangs against a dark sky;
It shines upon the solitary one in the Palace of the High Gate.




ETERNALLY THINKING OF EACH OTHER

BY LI T'AI-PO


(_The Woman Speaks_)

The colour of the day is over; flowers hold the mist in their lips.
The bright moon is like glistening silk. I cannot sleep for grief.
The tones of the Chao psaltery begin and end on the bridge of the
silver-crested love-pheasant.
I wish I could play my Shu table-lute on the mandarin duck strings.
The meaning of this music--there is no one to receive it.
I desire my thoughts to follow the Spring wind, even to the Swallow
Mountains.
I think of my Lord far, far away, remote as the Green Heaven.
In old days, my eyes were like horizontal waves;
Now they flow, a spring of tears.
If you do not believe that the bowels of your Unworthy One are torn
and severed,
Return and take up the bright mirror I was wont to use.


(_The Man Speaks_)

We think of each other eternally.
My thoughts are at Ch'ang An.
The Autumn cricket chirps beside the railing of the Golden Well;
The light frost is chilly, chilly; the colour of the bamboo sleeping
mat is cold.
The neglected lamp does not burn brightly. My thoughts seem broken
off.
I roll up the long curtain and look at the moon--it is useless, I
sigh continually.
The Beautiful, Flower-like One is as far from me as the distance of
the clouds.
Above is the brilliant darkness of a high sky,
Below is the rippling surface of the clear water.
Heaven is far and the road to it is long; it is difficult for a
man's soul to compass it in flight.
Even in a dream my spirit cannot cross the grievous barrier of hills.
We think of each other eternally.
My heart and my liver are snapped in two.




PASSIONATE GRIEF

BY LI T'AI-PO


Beautiful is this woman who rolls up the pearl-reed blind.
She sits in an inner chamber,
And her eyebrows, delicate as a moth's antennæ,
Are drawn with grief.
One sees only the wet lines of tears.
For whom does she suffer this misery?
We do not know.




SUNG TO THE AIR: "THE MANTZŬ LIKE AN IDOL"

BY LI T'AI-PO


The trees in the level forest stand in rows and rows,
The mist weaves through them.
The jade-green of the cold hillside country hurts one's heart.
Night colour drifts into the high cupola.
In the cupola, a man grieves.

I stand--stand--on the jade steps, doing nothing.
The birds are flying quickly to roost.
There is the road I should follow if I were going home.
Instead, for me, the "long" rest-houses alternate with the "short"
rest-houses.




AT THE YELLOW CRANE TOWER, TAKING LEAVE OF MÊNG HAO JAN ON HIS DEPARTURE
TO KUANG LING

BY LI T'AI-PO


I take leave of my dear old friend at the Yellow Crane Tower.
In the flower-smelling mist of the Third Month he will arrive at
Yang Chou.
The single sail is shining far off--it is extinguished in the
jade-coloured distance,
I see only the long river flowing to the edge of Heaven.




IN DEEP THOUGHT, GAZING AT THE MOON

BY LI T'AI-PO


The clear spring reflects the thin, wide-spreading pine-tree--
And for how many thousand, thousand years?
No one knows.
The late Autumn moon shivers along the little water ripples,
The brilliance of it flows in through the window.
Before it I sit for a long time absent-mindedly chanting,
Thinking of my friend--
What deep thoughts!
There is no way to see him. How then can we speak together?
Joy is dead. Sorrow is the heart of man.




THOUGHTS FROM A THOUSAND LI

BY LI T'AI-PO


Li Ling is buried in the sands of Hu.
Su Wu has returned to the homes of Han.
Far, far, the Five Spring Pass,
Sorrowful to see the flower-like snow.
He is gone, separated, by a distant country,
But his thoughts return,
Long sighing in grief.
Toward the Northwest
Wild geese are flying.
If I sent a letter--so--to the edge of Heaven.




WORD-PATTERN

BY LI T'AI-PO


The Autumn wind is fresh and clear;
The Autumn moon is bright.
Fallen leaves whirl together and scatter.
The jackdaws, who have gone to roost, are startled again.
We are thinking of each other, but when shall we see each other?
Now, to-night, I suffer, because of my passion.




THE HEAVEN'S GATE MOUNTAINS

BY LI T'AI-PO


In the far distance, the mountains seem to rise out of the river;
Two peaks, standing opposite each other, make a natural gateway.
The cold colour of the pines is reflected between the river-banks,
Stones divide the current and shiver the wave-flowers to fragments.
Far off, at the border of Heaven, is the uneven line of
mountain-pinnacles;
Beyond, the bright sky is a blur of rose-tinted clouds.
The sun sets, and the boat goes on and on--
As I turn my head, the mountains sink down into the brilliance of
the cloud-covered sky.




POEM SENT ON HEARING THAT WANG CH'ANG-LING HAD BEEN EXILED TO LUNG PIAO

BY LI T'AI-PO


In Yang Chou, the blossoms are dropping. The night-jar calls.
I hear it said that you are going to Lung Piao--that you will cross
the Five Streams.
I fling the grief of my heart up to the bright moon
That it may follow the wind and arrive, straight as eyesight, to the
West of Yeh Lang.




A PARTING GIFT TO WANG LUN

BY LI T'AI-PO


Li Po gets into a small boat--he is on the point of starting.
Suddenly he hears footsteps on the bank and the sound of singing.
The Peach-Flower Pool is a thousand feet deep,
Yet it is not greater than the emotion of Wang Lun as he takes leave
of me.




SAYING GOOD-BYE TO A FRIEND WHO IS GOING ON AN EXCURSION TO THE
PLUM-FLOWER LAKE

BY LI T'AI-PO


I bid you good-bye, my friend, as you are going on an excursion to
the Plum-Flower Lake.
You should see the plum-blossoms open;
It is understood that you hire a person to bring me some.
You must not permit the rose-red fragrance to fade.
You will only be at the New Forest Reach a little time,
Since we have agreed to drink at the City of the Golden Mound at
full moon.
Nevertheless you must not omit the wild-goose letter,
Or else our knowledge of each other will be as the dust of Hu to the
dust of Yüeh.




A POEM SENT TO TU FU FROM SHA CH'IU CH'ÊNG

BY LI T'AI-PO


After all, what have I come here to do?
To lie and meditate at Sha Ch'iu Ch'êng.
Near the city are ancient trees,
And day and night are continuous with Autumn noises.
One cannot get drunk on Lu wine,
The songs of Ch'i have no power to excite emotion.
I think of my friend, and my thoughts are like the Wên River,
Mightily moving, directed toward the South.




BIDDING GOOD-BYE TO YIN SHU

BY LI T'AI-PO


Before the White Heron Island--the moon.
At dawn to-morrow I shall bid good-bye to the returning traveller.
The sky is growing bright,
The sun is behind the Green Dragon Hill;
Head high it pushes out of the sea clouds and appears.
Flowing water runs without emotions,
The sail which will carry him away meets the wind and fills.
We watch it together. We cannot bear to be separated.
Again we pledge each other from the cups we hold in our hands.




A DESULTORY VISIT TO THE FÊNG HSIEN TEMPLE AT THE DRAGON'S GATE

BY TU FU


I had already wandered away from the People's Temple,
But I was obliged to sleep within the temple precincts.
The dark ravine was full of the music of silence,
The moon scattered bright shadows through the forest.
The Great Gate against the sky seemed to impinge upon the paths of
the planets.
Sleeping among the clouds, my upper garments, my lower garments,
were cold.
Wishing to wake, I heard the sunrise bell
Commanding men to come forth and examine themselves in meditation.




THE THATCHED HOUSE UNROOFED BY AN AUTUMN GALE

BY TU FU


It is the Eighth Month, the very height of Autumn.
The wind rages and roars.
It tears off three layers of my grass-roof.
The thatch flies--it crosses the river--it is scattered about in the
open spaces by the river.
High-flying, it hangs, tangled and floating, from the tops of forest
trees;
Low-flying, it whirls--turns--and sinks into the hollows of the
marsh.
The swarm of small boys from the South Village laugh at me because I
am old and feeble.
How dare they act like thieves and robbers before my face,
Openly seizing my thatch and running into my bamboo grove?
My lips are scorched, my mouth dry, I scream at them, but to no
purpose.
I return, leaning on my staff. I sigh and breathe heavily.

Presently, of a sudden, the wind ceases. The clouds are the colour
of ink.
The Autumn sky is endless--endless--stretching toward dusk and
night.
My old cotton quilt is as cold as iron;
My restless son sleeps a troubled sleep, his moving foot tears the
quilt.
Over the head of the bed is a leak. Not a place is dry.
The rain streams and stands like hemp--there is no break in its
falling.
Since this misery and confusion, I have scarcely slept or dozed.
All the long night, I am soaking wet. When will the light begin to
sift in?
If one could have a great house of one thousand, ten thousand
rooms--
A great shelter where all the Empire's shivering scholars could have
happy faces--
Not moved by wind or rain, solid as a mountain--
Alas! When shall I see that house standing before my eyes?
Then, although my own hut were destroyed, although I might freeze
and die, I should be satisfied.




THE RIVER VILLAGE

BY TU FU


The river makes a bend and encircles the village with its current.
All the long Summer, the affairs and occupations of the river
village are quiet and simple.
The swallows who nest in the beams go and come as they please.
The gulls in the middle of the river enjoy one another, they crowd
together and touch one another.
My old wife paints a chess-board on paper.
My little sons hammer needles to make fish-hooks.
I have many illnesses, therefore my only necessities are medicines;
Besides these, what more can so humble a man as I ask?




THE EXCURSION

A NUMBER OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN OF RANK, ACCOMPANIED BY SINGING-GIRLS, GO
OUT TO ENJOY THE COOL OF EVENING. THEY ENCOUNTER A SHOWER OF RAIN

BY TU FU


I

How delightful, at sunset, to loosen the boat!
A light wind is slow to raise waves.
Deep in the bamboo grove, the guests linger;
The lotus-flowers are pure and bright in the cool evening air.
The young nobles stir the ice-water;
The Beautiful Ones wash the lotus-roots, whose fibres are like silk
threads.
A layer of clouds above our heads is black.
It will certainly rain, which impels me to write this poem.


II

The rain comes, soaking the mats upon which we are sitting.
A hurrying wind strikes the bow of the boat.
The rose-red rouge of the ladies from Yüeh is wet;
The Yen beauties are anxious about their kingfisher-eyebrows.
We throw out a rope and draw in to the sloping bank. We tie the boat
to the willow-trees.
We roll up the curtains and watch the floating wave-flowers.
Our return is different from our setting out. The wind whistles and
blows in great gusts.
By the time we reach the shore, it seems as though the Fifth Month
were Autumn.




THE RECRUITING OFFICERS AT THE VILLAGE OF THE STONE MOAT

BY TU FU


I sought a lodging for the night, at sunset, in the Stone Moat
Village.
Recruiting Officers, who seize people by night, were there.
A venerable old man climbed over the wall and fled.
An old woman came out of the door and peered.
What rage in the shouts of the Recruiting Officers!
What bitterness in the weeping of the old woman!
I heard the words of the woman as she pled her cause before them:
"My three sons are with the frontier guard at Yeh Ch'êng.
From one son I have received a letter.
A little while ago, two sons died in battle.
He who remains has stolen a temporary lease of life;
The dead are finished forever.
In the house, there is still no grown man,
Only my grandson at the breast.
The mother of my grandson has not gone,
Going out, coming in, she has not a single whole skirt.
I am an old, old woman, and my strength is failing,
But I beg to go with the Recruiting Officers when they return this
night.
I will eagerly agree to act as a servant at Ho Yang;
I am still able to prepare the early morning meal. "
The sound of words ceased in the long night,
It was as though I heard the darkness choke with tears.
At daybreak, I went on my way,
Only the venerable old man was left.




CROSSING THE FRONTIER

BY TU FU


I

When bows are bent, they should be bent strongly;
When arrows are used, they should be long.
The bow-men should first shoot the horses.
In taking the enemy prisoner, the Leader should first be taken;
There should be no limit to the killing of men.
In making a kingdom, there must naturally be a boundary.
If it were possible to regulate usurpation,
Would so many be killed and wounded?




CROSSING THE FRONTIER

BY TU FU


II

At dawn, the conscripted soldiers enter the camp outside the Eastern
Gate.
At sunset, they cross the bridge of Ho Yang.
The setting sunlight is reflected on the great flags.
Horses neigh. The wind whines--whines--
Ten thousand tents are spread along the level sand.
Officers instruct their companies.
The bright moon hangs in the middle of the sky.
The written orders are strict that the night shall be still and empty.
Sadness everywhere. A few sounds from a Mongol flageolet jar the air.
The strong soldiers are no longer proud, they quiver with sadness.
May one ask who is their General?
Perhaps it is Ho P'iao Yao.




THE SORCERESS GORGE

BY TU FU


Jade dew lies upon the withered and wounded forest of maple-trees.
On the Sorceress Hill, over the Sorceress Gorge, the mist is
desolate and dark.
The ripples of the river increase into waves and blur with the
rapidly flowing sky.
The wind-clouds at the horizon become confused with the Earth.
Darkness.
The myriad chrysanthemums have bloomed twice. Days to come--tears.
The solitary little boat is moored, but my heart is in the old-time
garden.
Everywhere people are hastening to measure and cut out their Winter
clothes.
At sunset, in the high City of the White Emperor, the hurried
pounding of washed garments.




THINKING OF LI PO ON A SPRING DAY

BY TU FU


The poems of Po are unequalled.
His thoughts are never categorical, but fly high in the wind.
His poems are clear and fresh as those of Yü, the official;
They are fine and easy as those of Pao, the military counsellor.
I am North of the river Wei, looking at the Spring trees;
You are East of the river, watching the sunset clouds.
When shall we meet over a jug of wine?
When shall I have another precious discussion of literature with you?




AT THE EDGE OF HEAVEN. THINKING OF LI T'AI-PO

BY TU FU


A cold wind blows up from the edge of Heaven.
The state of mind of the superior man is what?
When does the wild goose arrive?
Autumn water flows high in the rivers and lakes.

They hated your essay--yet your fate was to succeed.
The demons where you are rejoice to see men go by.
You should hold speech with the soul of Yüan,
And toss a poem into the Mi Lo River as a gift to him.




SENT TO LI PO AS A GIFT

BY TU FU


Autumn comes,
We meet each other.
You still whirl about as a thistledown in the wind.
Your Elixir of Immortality is not yet perfected
And, remembering Ko Hung, you are ashamed.
You drink a great deal,
You sing wild songs,
Your days pass in emptiness.
Your nature is a spreading fire,
It is swift and strenuous.
But what does all this bravery amount to?




A TOAST FOR MÊNG YÜN-CH'ING

BY TU FU


Illimitable happiness,
But grief for our white heads.
We love the long watches of the night, the red candle.
It would be difficult to have too much of meeting,
Let us not be in a hurry to talk of separation.
But because the Heaven River will sink,
We had better empty the wine-cups.
To-morrow, at bright dawn, the world's business will entangle us.
We brush away our tears,
We go--East and West.




MOON NIGHT

BY TU FU


To-night--the moon at Fu Chou.
In the centre of the Women's Apartments
There is only one to look at it.
I am far away, but I love my little son, my daughter.
They cannot understand and think of Ch'ang An.
The sweet-smelling mist makes the cloud head-dress damp,
The jade arm must be chilly
In this clear, glorious shining.
When shall I lean on the lonely screen?
When shall we both be shone upon, and the scars of tears be dry?




HEARING THE EARLY ORIOLE (WRITTEN IN EXILE)

BY PO CHÜ-I


The sun rose while I slept. I had not yet risen
When I heard an early oriole above the roof of my house.
Suddenly it was like the Royal Park at dawn,
With birds calling from the branches of the ten-thousand-year trees.
I thought of my time as a Court Official
When I was meticulous with my pencil in the Audience Hall.
At the height of Spring, in occasional moments of leisure,
I would look at the grass and growing things,
And at dawn and at dusk I would hear this sound.
Where do I hear it now?
In the lonely solitude of the City of Hsün Yang.
The bird's song is certainly the same,
The change is in the emotions of the man.
If I could only stop thinking that I am at the ends of the earth,
I wonder, would it be so different from the Palace after all?




THE CITY OF STONES. (NANKING)

BY LIU YÜ-HSI


Hills surround the ancient kingdom; they never change.
The tide beats against the empty city, and silently, silently,
returns.
To the East, over the Huai River--the ancient moon.
Through the long, quiet night it moves, crossing the battlemented
wall.




SUNG TO THE TUNE OF "THE UNRIPE HAWTHORN BERRY"

BY NIU HSI-CHI


Mist is trying to hide the Spring-coloured hills,
The sky is pale, the stars are scattered and few.
The moon is broken and fading, yet there is light on your face,
These are the tears of separation, for now it is bright dawn.

We have said many words,
But our passion is not assuaged.
Turn your head, I have still something to say:
Remember my skirt of green open-work silk,
The sweet-scented grasses everywhere will prevent your forgetting.




WRITTEN BY WANG WEI, IN THE MANNER OF CHIA, THE (PALACE) SECRETARY,
AFTER AN IMPERIAL AUDIENCE AT DAWN IN THE "PALACE OF GREAT BRILLIANCE"


At the first light of the still-concealed sun, the Cock-man, in his
dark-red cap, strikes the tally-sticks and proclaims aloud the
hour.
At this exact moment, the Keeper of the Robes sends in the
eider-duck skin dress, with its cloud-like curving
feather-scales of kingfisher green.
In the Ninth Heaven, the Ch'ang Ho Gate opens; so do those of the
Palaces, and the Halls of Ceremony in the Palaces.
The ten thousand kingdoms send their ambassadors in the dresses and
caps of their ranks to do reverence before the pearl-stringed
head-dress.
The immediately-arrived sun tips the "Immortal Palm"; it glitters.
Sweet-scented smoke rises and flows about the Emperor's ceremonial
robes, making the dragons writhe.
The audience ended, I wish to cut the paper of five colours and
write upon it the words of the Son of Heaven.
My jade girdle-ornaments clash sweetly as I return to sit beside the
Pool of the Crested Love-Pheasant.




THE BLUE-GREEN STREAM

BY WANG WEI


Every time I have started for the Yellow Flower River,
I have gone down the Blue-Green Stream,
Following the hills, making ten thousand turnings.
We go along rapidly, but advance scarcely one hundred _li_.
We are in the midst of a noise of water,
Of the confused and mingled sounds of water broken by stones,
And in the deep darkness of pine-trees.
Rocked, rocked,
Moving on and on,
We float past water-chestnuts
Into a still clearness reflecting reeds and rushes.
My heart is clean and white as silk; it has already achieved Peace;
It is smooth as the placid river.
I long to stay here, curled up on the rocks,
Dropping my fish-line forever.


FARM HOUSE ON THE WEI STREAM

BY WANG WEI

The slanting sun shines on the cluster of small houses upon the
heights.
Oxen and sheep are coming home along the distant lane.
An old countryman is thinking of the herd-boy,
He leans on his staff by the thorn-branch gate, watching.
Pheasants are calling, the wheat is coming into ear,
Silk-worms sleep, the mulberry-leaves are thin.
Labourers, with their hoes over their shoulders, arrive;
They speak pleasantly together, loth to part.
It is for this I long--unambitious peace!
Disappointed in my hopes, dissatisfied, I hum "Dwindled and
Shrunken. "




SEEKING FOR THE HERMIT OF THE WEST HILL; NOT MEETING HIM

BY CH'IU WEI


On the Nothing-Beyond Peak, a hut of red grass.
I mount straight up for thirty _li_.
I knock at the closed door--no serving boy.
I look into the room. There is only the low table, and the stand for
the elbows.
If you are not sitting on the cloth seat of your rough wood cart,
Then you must be fishing in the Autumn water.
We have missed each other; we have not seen each other;
My effort to do you homage has been in vain.
The grass is the colour which rain leaves.
From inside the window, I hear the sound of pine-trees at dusk.
There is no greater solitude than to be here.
My ears hear it; my heart spreads open to it naturally.
Although I lack the entertainment of a host,
I have received much--the whole doctrine of clear purity.
My joy exhausted, I descend the hill.
Why should I wait for the Man of Wisdom?




FLOATING ON THE POOL OF JO YA. SPRING

BY CHI WU-CH'IEN


Solitary meditation is not suddenly snapped off; it continues
without interruption.
It flows--drifts this way, that way--returns upon itself.
The boat moves before a twilight wind.
We enter the mouth of the pool by the flower path
At the moment when night enfolds the Western Valley.
The serrated hills face the Southern Constellation,
Mist hangs over the deep river pools and floats down gently, gently,
with the current.
Behind me, through the trees, the moon is sinking.
The business of the world is a swiftly moving space of water, a
rushing, spreading water.
I am content to be an old man holding a bamboo fishing-rod.




SUNG TO THE AIR: "THE WANDERER"

(COMPOSED BY SU WU IN THE TIME OF THE EMPEROR WU OF HAN)

BY MÊNG CHIAO


Thread from the hands of a doting mother
Worked into the clothes of a far-off journeying son.
Before his departure, were the close, fine stitches set,
Lest haply his return be long delayed.
The heart--the inch-long grass--
Who will contend that either can repay
The gentle brightness of the Third Month of Spring.




FAREWELL WORDS TO THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE OF YANG

BY WEI YING-WU


Because of this, sad, sad has the whole day been to me.
You must go forth and journey, far, very far.
The time has come when you, the maiden, must go.
The light boat ascends the great river.
Your particular bitterness is to have none from whom you may claim
support.
I have cherished you. I have pondered over you. I have been
increasingly gentle and tender to you.
A child taken from those who have cared for it--
On both sides separation brings the tears which will not cease.
Facing this, the very centre of the bowels is knotted.
It is your duty, you must go. It is scarcely possible to delay
farther.
From early childhood, you have lacked a mother's guidance,
How then will you know to serve your husband's mother? I am anxious.
From this time, the support on which you must rely is the home of
your husband.
You will find kindness and sympathy, therefore you must not grumble;
Modesty and thrift are indeed to be esteemed.
Money and jewels, maid-servants and furnishings--are these
necessary, a perfection to be waited for?
The way of a wife should be filial piety, respect and compliance;
Your manner, your conduct, should be in accord with this way.
To-day, at dawn, we part.
How many Autumns will pass before I see you?
Usually I endeavour to command my feelings,
But now, when my emotions come upon me suddenly, they are difficult
to control.
Being returned home, I look at my own little girl.
My tears fall as rain. They trickle down the string of my cap and
continue to flow.




SUNG TO THE AIR: "LOOKING SOUTH OVER THE RIVER AND DREAMING"

BY WÊN T'ING-YÜN


The hair is combed,
The face is washed,
All is done.

Alone, in the upper story of my Summer-house, I bend forward,
looking at the river.
A thousand sails pass--but among all of them the one is not.
The slant sunlight will not speak,
It will not speak.
The long-stretched water scarcely moves.

My bowels are broken within me.
Oh! Island of the White Water Flowers!




TOGETHER WE KNOW HAPPINESS

WRITTEN BY A DESCENDANT OF THE FOUNDER OF THE SOUTHERN T'ANG DYNASTY


Silent and alone, I ascended the West Cupola.
The moon was like a golden hook.
In the quiet, empty, inner courtyard, the coolness of early Autumn
enveloped the wu-t'ung tree.

Scissors cannot cut this thing;
Unravelled, it joins again and clings.
It is the sorrow of separation,
And none other tastes to the heart like this.




ONCE MORE FIELDS AND GARDENS

BY T'AO YÜAN-MING


Even as a young man
I was out of tune with ordinary pleasures.
It was my nature to love the rooted hills,
The high hills which look upon the four edges of Heaven.
What folly to spend one's life like a dropped leaf
Snared under the dust of streets,
But for thirteen years it was so I lived.

The caged bird longs for the fluttering of high leaves.
The fish in the garden pool languishes for the whirled water
Of meeting streams.
So I desired to clear and seed a patch of the wild Southern moor.
And always a countryman at heart,
I have come back to the square enclosures of my fields
And to my walled garden with its quiet paths.

Mine is a little property of ten _mou_ or so,
A thatched house of eight or nine rooms.
On the North side, the eaves are overhung
With the thick leaves of elm-trees,
And willow-trees break the strong force of the wind.
On the South, in front of the great hall,
Peach-trees and plum-trees spread a net of branches
Before the distant view.

The village is hazy, hazy,
And mist sucks over the open moor.
A dog barks in the sunken lane which runs through the village.
A cock crows, perched on a clipped mulberry.

There is no dust or clatter
In the courtyard before my house.
My private rooms are quiet,
And calm with the leisure of moonlight through an open door.

For a long time I lived in a cage;
Now I have returned.
For one must return
To fulfil one's nature.




SONG OF THE SNAPPED WILLOW

WRITTEN DURING THE LIANG DYNASTY


When he mounted his horse, he did not take his leather riding-whip;
He pulled down and snapped off the branch of a willow-tree.
When he dismounted, he blew into his horizontal flute,
And it was as though the fierce grief of his departure would destroy
the traveller.




THE CLOUDY RIVER

(FROM THE "BOOK OF ODES")


How the Cloudy River glitters--
Shining, revolving in the sky!
The King spoke:
"Alas! Alas!
What crime have the men of to-day committed
That Heaven sends down upon them
Confusion and death?
The grain does not sprout,
The green harvests wither,
Again and again this happens.