No More Learning

The red candles in the silver candlesticks melt, and the wax runs
from them,
As the tears of your so Unworthy One escape and continue constantly
to flow.
A flower face endures but a short season,
Yet still he drifts along the river Hsiao and the river Hsiang.
As I toss on my pillow, I hear the cold, nostalgic sound of the
water-clock:
Shêng! Shêng! it drips, cutting my heart in two.

I rise at dawn. In the Hall of Pictures
They come and tell me that the snow-flowers are falling.
The reed-blind is rolled high, and I gaze at the beautiful,
glittering, primeval snow,
Whitening the distance, confusing the stone steps and the courtyard.
The air is filled with its shining, it blows far out like the smoke
of a furnace.
The grass-blades are cold and white, like jade girdle pendants.
Surely the Immortals in Heaven must be crazy with wine to cause such
disorder,
Seizing the white clouds, crumpling them up, destroying them.




THE PLEASURES WITHIN THE PALACE

BY LI T'AI-PO


From little, little girls, they have lived in the Golden House.
They are lovely, lovely, in the Purple Hall.
They dress their hair with hill flowers,
And rock-bamboos are embroidered on their dresses of open-work silk
gauze.
When they go out from the retired Women's Apartments,
They often follow the Palace chairs.
Their only sorrow, that the songs and wu dances are over,
Changed into the five-coloured clouds and flown away.




THE YOUNG GIRLS OF YÜEH

BY LI T'AI-PO


I

Young girls are gathering lotus-seeds on the pond of Ya.
Seeing a man on the bank, they turn and row away singing.
Laughing, they hide among the lotus-flowers,
And, in a pretence of bashfulness, will not come out.


II

Many of the young girls of Wu are white, dazzlingly white.
They like to amuse themselves by floating in little boats on the
water.
Peeping out of the corners of their eyes, they spurn the Springtime
heart.
Gathering flowers, they ridicule the passer-by.




WRITTEN IN THE CHARACTER OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN GRIEVING BEFORE HER MIRROR

BY LI T'AI-PO


I

Bright, bright, the gilded magpie mirror,
Absolutely perfect in front of me on the jade dressing-stand.
Wiped, rubbed, splendid as the Winter moon;
Its light and brilliance, how clear and round!
The rose-red face is older than it was yesterday,
The hair is whiter than it was last year.
The white-lead powder is neglected,
It is useless to look into the mirror. I am utterly miserable.


II

When my Lord went away, he gave me this precious mirror coiled with
dragons
That I might gaze at my golden-threaded dress of silken gauze.
Again and again I take my red sleeve and polish the bright moon.
Because I love to see its splendour lighting up everything.
In its centre is my reflection, and the golden magpie which does not
fly away.
I sit at my dressing-stand, and I am like the green Fire-Bird who,
thinking of its mate, died alone.
My husband is parted from me as an arrow from the bowstring.
I know the day he left; I do not know the year when he will return.
The cruel wind blows--truly the heart of the Unworthy One is cut to
pieces.
My tears, like white jade chop-sticks, fall in a single piece before
the water-chestnut mirror.




SONGS TO THE PEONIES SUNG TO THE AIR: "PEACEFUL BRIGHTNESS"

BY LI T'AI-PO


I

The many-coloured clouds make me think of her upper garments, of her
lower garments;
Flowers make me think of her face.
The Spring wind brushes the blossoms against the balustrade,
In the heavy dew they are bright and tinted diversely.
If it were not on the Heaped Jade Mountain that I saw her,
I must have met her at the Green Jasper Terrace, or encountered her
by accident in the moon.


II

A branch of opulent, beautiful flowers, sweet-scented under frozen
dew.
No love-night like that on the Sorceress Mountain for these; their
bowels ache in vain.
Pray may I ask who, in the Palace of Han, is her equal?
Even the "Flying Swallow" is to be pitied, since she must rely upon
ever new adornments.


III

The renowned flower, and she of a loveliness to overthrow
Kingdoms--both give happiness.
Each receives a smile from the Prince when he looks at them.
The Spring wind alone can understand and explain the boundless
jealousy of the flower,
Leaning over the railing of the balcony at the North side of the
aloe-wood pavilion.




SPRING GRIEF AND RESENTMENT BY LI T'AI-PO


There is a white horse with a gold bridle to the East of the Liao
Sea.
Bed-curtains of open-work silk--embroidered quilt--I sleep with the
Spring wind.
The setting moon drops level to the balcony, it spies upon me. The
candle is burnt out.
A blown flower drifts in through the inner door--it mocks at the
empty bed.




THE CAST-OFF PALACE WOMAN OF CH'IN AND THE DRAGON ROBES

BY LI T'AI-PO


At Wei Yang dwells the Son of Heaven.
The all Unworthy One attends beside
The Dragon-broidered robes.
I ponder his regard, not mine the love
Enjoyed by those within the Purple Palace.
And yet I have attained to brightening
The bed of yellow gold.
If floods should come, I also would not leave.
A bear might come and still I could protect.
My inconsiderable body knows the honour
Of serving Sun and Moon.
I flicker with a little glow of light,
A firefly's. I beg my Lord to pluck
The trifling mustard plant and melon-flower
And not reject them for their hidden roots.




THE POET IS DETAINED IN A NANKING WINE-SHOP ON THE EVE OF STARTING ON A
JOURNEY

BY LI T'AI-PO


The wind blows. The inn is filled with the scent of willow-flowers.
In the wine-shops of Wu, women are pressing the wine. The sight
invites customers to taste.
The young men and boys of Nanking have gathered to see me off;
I wish to start, but I do not, and we drink many, many horn cups to
the bottom.
I beg them to look at the water flowing toward the East,
And when we separate to let their thoughts follow its example and
run constantly in my direction.




FÊNG HUANG T'AI

ASCENDING THE TERRACE OF THE SILVER-CRESTED LOVE-PHEASANTS AT THE CITY
OF THE GOLDEN MOUND

BY LI T'AI-PO


The silver-crested love-pheasants strutted upon the Pheasant
Terrace.
Now the pheasants are gone, the terrace is empty, and the river
flows on its old, original way.
Gone are the blossoms of the Palace of Wu and overgrown the road to
it.
Passed the generations of the Chin, with their robes and
head-dresses; they lie beneath the ancient mounds.

The three hills are half fallen down from Green Heaven.
The White Heron Island cuts the river in two.
Here also, drifting clouds may blind the Sun,
One cannot see Ch'ang An, City of Eternal Peace.
Therefore am I sorrowful.




THE NORTHERN FLIGHT

BY LI T'AI-PO


What hardships are encountered in a Northern flight!
We fly Northward, ascending the T'ai Hang Mountains.
The mountain road winds round a cliff, and it is very steep and
dangerous;
The precipice, sheer as though cut with a knife, rises to the great,
wide blue of the sky.
The horses' feet slip on the slanting ledges;
The carriage-wheels are broken on the high ridges;
The sand, scuffed into dust, floats in a continuous line to Yo Chou.
The smoke of beacon fires connects us with the Country of the North.
The spirit of killing is in the spears, in the cruel two-edged
swords.
The savage wind rips open the upper garments, the lower garments.
The rushing whale squeezes the Yellow River;
The man-eating beasts with long tusks assemble at Lo Yang.

We press forward with no knowledge of when we shall return;
We look back, thinking of our former home;
Grieving and lamenting in the midst of ice and snow;
Groaning aloud, with our bowels rent asunder.
A foot of cloth does not cover the body,
Our skins are cracked as the bark of a dead mulberry.
The deep gullies prevent us from getting water from the mountain
streams,
Far away are the slopes where we might gather grass and twigs for
our fires,
Then, too, the terrible tiger lashes his tail,
And his polished teeth glitter like Autumn frosts.
Grass and trees cannot be eaten.
We famish; we drink the drops of freezing dew.
Alas! So we suffer, travelling Northward.
I stop my four-horse carriage, overcome by misery.
When will our Emperor find a peaceful road?
When, before our glad faces, shall we see the Glory of Heaven?




FIGHTING TO THE SOUTH OF THE CITY

BY LI T'AI-PO


Last year they fought at the source of the Sang Ch'ien,
This year they fight on the road by the Leek-green River.
The soldiers were drenched by the waters of the Aral Sea,
The horses were turned loose to find grass in the midst of the snows
of the Heaven High Hills.
Over ten thousand _li_, they attacked and fought,
The three divisions are crumbled, decayed, utterly worn and old.
The Hsiung Nu use killing and slaughter in the place of the business
of plowing.
From ancient times, only dry, white bones are seen on the yellow
sand-fields.
The House of Ch'in erected and pounded firm the wall to make a
barrier before the dwelling-place of the Barbarians,
The House of Han still preserved the beacon-stands where fires are
lighted.
The lighting of beacon fires on the stands never ceases,
The fighting and attacking are without a time of ending.
In savage attack they die--fighting without arms.
The riderless horses scream with terror, throwing their heads up to
the sky.
Vultures and kites tear the bowels of men with their beaks
And fly to hang them on the branches of dead trees.
Officers and soldiers lying in mud, in grass, in undergrowth.
Helpless, the General--Yes, incapable before this!
We have learnt that soldiers are evil tools,
But wise men have not accomplished the ending of war, and still we
employ them.




THE CROSSWISE RIVER

BY LI T'AI-PO


I

There are people who say the Crosswise River is good;
I say the Crosswise River is terrible.
The savage wind blows as if it would overturn the Heaven's Gate
Mountains.
The white waves are as high as the high rooms in the Temple of Wa
Kuan.


II

The sea tide flowing Southward passes Hsün Yang.
From the beginning of things, the Ox Ledge has been more dangerous
than the Standing Horse Hill.
Those who wish to cross the Crosswise River
Find evil winds and waves.
The misery of that one stretch of water draws out its length to ten
thousand _li_.


III

When the Sea Demon passes by, a vicious wind curves back.
The waves beat open the rock wall of the Gate of Heaven.
Is the Eighth Month tide-bore of Chêkiang equal to this?
It seems as though the vast, booming waves were part of the
mountains--they spurt out snow.




ON HEARING THE BUDDHIST PRIEST OF SHU PLAY HIS TABLE-LUTE

BY LI T'AI-PO


The Priest of the Province of Shu, carrying his table-lute in a
cover of green, shot silk,
Comes down the Western slope of the peak of Mount Omei.
He moves his hands for me, striking the lute.
It is like listening to the waters in ten thousand ravines, and the
wind in ten thousand pine-trees.
The traveller's heart is washed clean as in flowing water.
The echoes of the overtones join with the evening bell.
I am not conscious of the sunset behind the jade-grey hill,
Nor how many and dark are the Autumn clouds.




CH'ANG KAN

BY LI T'AI-PO


When the hair of your Unworthy One first began to cover her
forehead,
She picked flowers and played in front of the door.
Then you, my Lover, came riding a bamboo horse.
We ran round and round the bed, and tossed about the sweetmeats of
green plums.
We both lived in the village of Ch'ang Kan.
We were both very young, and knew neither jealousy nor suspicion.
At fourteen, I became the wife of my Lord.
I could not yet lay aside my face of shame;
I hung my head, facing the dark wall;
You might call me a thousand times, not once would I turn round.
At fifteen, I stopped frowning.
I wanted to be with you, as dust with its ashes.
I often thought that you were the faithful man who clung to the
bridge-post,
That I should never be obliged to ascend to the Looking-for-Husband
Ledge.
When I was sixteen, my Lord went far away.
To the Ch'ü T'ang Chasm and the Whirling Water Rock of the Yü River
Which, during the Fifth Month, must not be collided with;
Where the wailing of the gibbons seems to come from the sky.
Your departing footprints are still before the door where I bade you
good-bye,
In each has sprung up green moss.
The moss is thick, it cannot be swept away.
The leaves are falling, it is early for the Autumn wind to blow.
It is the Eighth Month, the butterflies are yellow,
Two are flying among the plants in the West garden;
Seeing them, my heart is bitter with grief, they wound the heart of
the Unworthy One.
The bloom of my face has faded, sitting with my sorrow.
From early morning until late in the evening, you descend the Three
Serpent River.
Prepare me first with a letter, bringing me the news of when you
will reach home.
I will not go far on the road to meet you,
I will go straight until I reach the Long Wind Sands.




SORROW DURING A CLEAR AUTUMN

BY LI T'AI-PO


I climb the hills of Chiu I--Oh-h-h-h-h! I look at the clear streams
a long way off.
I see distinctly the three branches of the Hsiang River, I hear the
sound of its swift current.
The water flows coldly; it is on its way to the lake.
The horizontal Autumn clouds hide the sky.
I go by the "Bird's Path. " I calculate the distance to my old home.
Oh-h-h-h-h!
I do not know how many thousand _li_ it is from Ching to Wu.
It is the hour of the Western brightness, of the half-round sun.
The dazzle on the island is about to disappear;
The smooth lake is brilliantly white--from the moon?
Over the lake, the moon is rising.
I think of the moment of meeting--the long stretch of time before
it.
I think of misty Yen and gaze at Yüeh.
The lotus-flowers have fallen--Oh-h-h-h-h! The river is the colour
of Autumn.
The wind passes--passes. The night is endless--endless.
I would go to the end of the Dark Sea. How eagerly I desire this!
I think much of fishing for a leviathan from the Island of the Cold
Sea.
There is no rod long enough to raise it.
I yield to the great waves, and my sorrow is increased.
I will return. I will go home. Oh-h-h-h-h!
Even for a little time, one cannot rely upon the World.
I long to pick the immortal herbs on the hill of P'êng.




POIGNANT GRIEF DURING A SUNNY SPRING

BY LI T'AI-PO


The East wind has come again.
I see the jade-green grass and realize that it is Spring.
Everywhere there is an immense confusion of ripples and agitations.
Why does the waving and fluttering of the weeping-willow make me sad?
The sky is so bright it shines; everything is lovely and at peace.
The breath of the sea is green, fresh, sweet-smelling;
The heaths are vari-coloured, blue--green--as a kingfisher feather.
Oh-h-h-h-h--How far one can see!
Clouds whirl, fly, float, and cluster together, each one sharply
defined;
Waves are smoothed into a wide, continuous flowing.
I examine the young moss in the well, how it starts into life.
I see something dim--Oh-h-h-h-h--waving up and down like floss silk.
I see it floating--it is a cobweb, coiling like smoke.
Before all these things--Oh-h-h-h-h--my soul is severed from my
body.
Confronted with the wind, the brilliance, I suffer.
I feel as one feels listening to the sound of the waters of the
Dragon Mound in Ch'in,
The gibbons wailing by the Serpent River.
I feel as the "Shining One" felt when she passed the Jade Frontier,
As the exile of Ch'u in the Maple Forest.
I will try to climb a high hill and look far away into the distance.
Pain cuts me to the bone and wounds my heart.
My Spring heart is agitated as the surface of the sea,
My Spring grief is bewildered like a flurry of snow.
Ten thousand emotions are mingled--their sorrow and their joy.
Yet I know only that my heart is torn in this Spring season.
She of whom I am thinking--Oh-h-h-h-h--is at the shore of the Hsiang
River,
Separated by the clouds and the rainbow--without these mists I could
surely see.
I scatter my tears a foot's length upon the water's surface.
I entrust the Easterly flowing water with my passion for the
Cherished One.
If I could command the shining of the Spring, could grasp it without
putting it out--Oh-h-h-h-h--
I should wish to send it as a gift to that beautiful person at the
border of Heaven.




TWO POEMS WRITTEN AS PARTING GIFTS TO TS'UI (THE OFFICIAL) OF CH'IU PU

BY LI T'AI-PO


I love Ts'ui of Ch'iu Pu.
He follows the ways of the Official T'ao.
At his gate, he has planted five willow-trees,
And on either side of the well, crowding it between them, stand two
wu-t'ung trees.
Mountain birds fly down and listen while he transacts business;
From the eaves of his house, flowers drop into the midst of his
wine.
Thinking of my Lord, I cannot bear to depart.
My thoughts are melancholy and endless.


II

My Lord is like T'ao of P'êng Tsê.
Often, during the day, he sleeps at the North window.
Again, in the moonlight, he bends over his table-lute and plays,
His hands follow his thoughts, for there are no strings.
When a guest comes, it is wine alone which he pours out.
He is the best of officials, since he does not care for gold.
He has planted many grains on the Eastern heights,
And he admonishes all the people to plow their fields early.




SENT AS A PARTING GIFT TO THE SECOND OFFICIAL OF CH'IU PU

BY LI T'AI-PO


In the old days, Ch'iu Pu was bare and desolate,
The serving-men in the Official Residence were few.
Because you, my Lord, have planted peach-trees and plum-trees,
This place has suddenly become exuberantly fragrant.
As your writing-brush moves, making the characters so full of life,
you gaze at the white clouds;
And, when the reed-blinds are rolled up, at the kingfisher-green of
the fading hills;
And, when the time comes, for long at the mountain moon;
Still again, when you are exhilarated with wine, at the shadow of
the moon in the wine-cup.
Great man and teacher, I love you.
I linger.
I cannot bear to leave.




THE SONG OF THE WHITE CLOUDS

SAYING GOOD-BYE TO LIU SIXTEEN ON HIS RETURN TO THE HILLS

BY LI T'AI-PO


The hills of Ch'u,
The hills of Ch'in,
White clouds everywhere.
White clouds follow my Lord always,
From place to place. They always follow
My Lord,
When my Lord arrives at the hills of Ch'u.
Clouds also follow my Lord when he floats
In a boat on the river Hsiang,
With the wild wistaria hanging above
The waters of the river Hsiang.
My Lord will go back
To where he can sleep
Among the white clouds,
When the sun is as high
As the head of a helmeted man.




WIND-BOUND AT THE NEW FOREST REACH. A LETTER SENT TO A FRIEND

BY LI T'AI-PO


Tidal water is a determined thing, it can be depended on;
But it is impossible to make an appointment with the wind of Heaven.
In the clear dawn, it veers Northwest;
At the last moment of sunset, it blows Southeast.
It is therefore difficult to set our sail.
The thought of our happy meeting becomes insistent.
The wide water reflects a moon no longer round, but broken.
Water grass springs green in the broad reach.
Yesterday, at the North Lake, there were plum-flowers;
They were just beginning to open, the branches were not covered.
To-day, at dawn, see the willows beyond the White Gate;
The road is squeezed between them, they drop down their bright green
silk threads.
Everything stirs like this, with the year--
When will my coming be fixed?
Willow-blossoms lie thick as snow on the river,
I am worried, the heart of the traveller is sad.
"At daybreak I will leave the New Forest Reach"--
But what is the use of humming Hsieh T'iao's poem.




IN THE PROVINCE OF LU, AT THE ANCESTRAL SHRINE OF KING YAO. SAYING
FAREWELL TO WU FIVE ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR LANG YA

BY LI T'AI-PO


King Yao has been dead for three thousand years,
But the green pine, the ancient temple, remain.
As we are bidding you good-bye, we set out offerings of cassia wine;
We make obeisance, we bend our knees, and, rising, turn our faces to
Heaven. Our hearts and spirits are pure.
The colour of the sun urges our return.
Song follows song, we tip up the flagon of sweet-scented wine.
The horses whinny. We are all tipsy, yet we rise.
Our hands separate. What words are there still to say?




DRINKING ALONE IN THE MOONLIGHT

BY LI T'AI-PO


I

A pot of wine among flowers.
I alone, drinking, without a companion.
I lift the cup and invite the bright moon.
My shadow opposite certainly makes us three.
But the moon cannot drink,
And my shadow follows the motions of my body in vain.
For the briefest time are the moon and my shadow my companions.
Oh, be joyful! One must make the most of Spring.
I sing--the moon walks forward rhythmically;
I dance, and my shadow shatters and becomes confused.
In my waking moments, we are happily blended.
When I am drunk, we are divided from one another and scattered.
For a long time I shall be obliged to wander without intention;
But we will keep our appointment by the far-off Cloudy River.




DRINKING ALONE IN THE MOONLIGHT

BY LI T'AI-PO


II

If Heaven did not love wine,
There would be no Wine Star in Heaven.
If Earth did not love wine,
There should be no Wine Springs on Earth.
Why then be ashamed before Heaven to love wine.
I have heard that clear wine is like the Sages;
Again it is said that thick wine is like the Virtuous Worthies.
Wherefore it appears that we have swallowed both Sages and Worthies.
Why should we strive to be Gods and Immortals?
Three cups, and one can perfectly understand the Great Tao;
A gallon, and one is in accord with all nature.
Only those in the midst of it can fully comprehend the joys of wine;
I do not proclaim them to the sober.




A STATEMENT OF RESOLUTIONS AFTER BEING DRUNK ON A SPRING DAY

BY LI T'AI-PO


This time of ours
Is like a great, confused dream.
Why should one spend one's life in toil?
Thinking this, I have been drunk all day.
I fell down and lay prone by the pillars in front of the house;
When I woke up, I gazed for a long time
At the courtyard before me.
A bird sings among the flowers.
May I ask what season this is?
Spring wind,
The bright oriole of the water-flowing flight calls.
My feelings make me want to sigh.
The wine is still here, I will throw back my head and drink.

I sing splendidly,
I wait for the bright moon.
Already, by the end of the song, I have forgotten my feelings.




RIVER CHANT

BY LI T'AI-PO


Fig-wood oars,
A boat of the wood of the sand-pear.
At either end,
Jade flageolets and pipes of gold.

Amidships,
Jars of delectable wine,
And ten thousand pints
Put by.

A boat-load of singing-girls
Following the water ripples--
Going,
Stopping,
Veering--

The Immortal waited,
Then mounted and rode the yellow crane.
But he who is the guest of the sea has no such desire,
Rather would he be followed by the white gulls.

The _tzŭ_ and _fu_ of Ch'ü P'ing hang suspended like the sun and
moon.
The terraces and the pleasure-houses
Of the Kings of Ch'u
Are empty heaps of earth.

I am drunk with wine.
With the sweet taste of it;
I am overflowed with the joy of it.
When I take up my writing-brush,
I could move the Five Peaks.

When I have finished my poem,
I laugh aloud in my arrogance.
I rise to the country of the Immortals which lies in the middle of
the sea.
If fame followed the ways of the good official,
If wealth and rank were long constant,
Then indeed might the water of the Han River flow Northwest.




SEPARATED BY IMPERIAL SUMMONS FROM HER WHO LIVES WITHIN

BY LI T'AI-PO


I

The Emperor commands; three times the summons. He who left has not
yet returned.
To-morrow, at sunrise, he will go out by the Pass of Wu.
From the upper chamber of white jade, I shall gaze far off; but I
shall be able to make out nothing.
Our thoughts will be with each other. I must ascend the
Looking-for-Husband Hill.


II

As I left my door, my wife dragged my clothes with all her strength.
She asked me in how many days I should return from the West.
"When I return, supposing I wear at my girdle the yellow gold seal,
You must not imitate Su Ch'in's wife and not leave your loom. "


III

The upper chamber of kingfisher jade, the stairs of gold--
Who passes the night alone, leaning against the door and sobbing?
She sits all night by the cold lamp until the moon melts into the
dawn.
Her streaming, streaming tears are exhausted--to the West of the
Ch'u Barrier.




A WOMAN SINGS TO THE AIR: "SITTING AT NIGHT"

BY LI T'AI-PO


A Winter night, a cold Winter night. To me, the night is unending.
I chant heavily to myself a long time. I sit, sit in the North Hall.
The water in the well is solid with ice. The moon enters the Women's
Apartments.
The flame of the gold lamp is very small, the oil is frozen. It
shines on the misery of my weeping.

The gold lamp goes out,
But the weeping continues and increases.
The Unworthy One hides her tears in her sleeve.
She hearkens to the song of her Lord, to the sound of it.
The Unworthy One knows her passion.
The passion and the sound unite,
There is no discord between them.
If a single phrase were unsympathetic to my thoughts,
Then, though my Lord sang ten thousand verses which should cause
even the dust on the beams to fly, to me it would be nothing.




THE PALACE WOMAN OF HAN TAN BECOMES THE WIFE OF THE SOLDIERS' COOK

BY LI T'AI-PO


Once the Unworthy One was a maiden of the Ts'ung Terrace.
Joyfully lifting my moth-pencilled eyebrows, I entered the
carnation-coloured Palace.
Relying on myself, my flower-like face,
How should I know that it would wither and fade?
Banished below the jade steps,
Gone as the early morning clouds are gone,
Whenever I think of Han Tan City
I dream of the Autumn moon from the middle of the Palace.
I cannot see the Prince, my Lord.
Desolate, my longing--until daylight comes.




THE SORREL HORSE

BY LI T'AI-PO


The sorrel horse with the black tail gallops, gallops, and neighs,
Lifting, curving, his grey-jade hoofs.
He shies from the flowing water, unwilling to cross,
As though he feared the mud for his embroidered saddlecloth.
The snow is white on the far frontier hills,
The clouds are yellow over the misty frontier sea.
I strike with my leather whip, there are ten thousand _li_ to go.
How can I accomplish it, thinking of Spring in the Women's
Apartments?




A POEM GIVEN TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN ENCOUNTERED ON A FIELD-PATH

BY LI T'AI-PO


The magnificent horse, galloping swiftly, tramples the fallen
flower.
Down comes the riding-whip, straight down--it strikes the Five Cloud
Cart.
The young person who lifts the pearl door-screen is very beautiful.
Moreover, she smiles.
She points to a Red Building in the distance--it is the home of the
Flower Maiden.




SAYING GOOD-BYE TO A FRIEND

BY LI T'AI-PO


Clear green hills at a right angle to the North wall,
White water winding to the East of the city.
Here is the place where we must part.
The lonely water-plants go ten thousand _li_;
The floating clouds wander everywhither as does man.
Day is departing--it and my friend.
Our hands separate. Now he is going.
"Hsiao, hsiao," the horse neighs.
He neighs again, "Hsiao, hsiao. "




DESCENDING THE EXTREME SOUTH MOUNTAIN; PASSING THE HOUSE OF HU SSŬ,
LOVER OF HILLS; SPENDING THE NIGHT IN THE PREPARATION OF WINE

BY LI T'AI-PO


We come down the green-grey jade hill,
The mountain moon accompanies us home.
We turn and look back up the path:
Green, green, the sky; the horizontal, kingfisher-green line of the
hills is fading.
Holding each other's hands, we reach the house in the fields.
Little boys throw open the gate of thorn branches,
The quiet path winds among dark bamboos,
Creepers, bright with new green, brush our garments.
Our words are happy, rest is in them.
Of an excellent flavour, the wine! We scatter the dregs of it
contentedly.
We sing songs for a long time; we chant them to the wind in the
pine-trees.
By the time the songs are finished, the stars in Heaven's River are
few.
I am tipsy. My friend is continuously merry.
In fact, we are so exhilarated that we both forget this complicated
machine, the world.




THE TERRACED ROAD OF THE TWO-EDGED SWORD MOUNTAINS

BY LI T'AI-PO


Looking South and straight from Hsien Yang for five thousand _li_,
One could see, among the full, blowing clouds, the rocky sharpness
of peaks,
Were it not for the horizontal line of the Two-Edged Sword Mountains
cutting across the view.
They are flat against the green sky, and open in the middle to let
the sky through.
On their heights, the wind whistles awesomely in the pines; it booms
in great, long gusts; it clashes like the strings of a
jade-stone psaltery; it shouts on the clearness of a gale.
In the Serpent River country, the gibbons--Oh-h-h-h-h--all the
gibbons together moan and grieve.
Beside the road, torrents flung from a great height rush down the
gully,
They toss stones and spray over the road, they run rapidly, they
whirl, they startle with the noise of thunder.
I bid good-bye to my devoted friend--Oh-h-h-h-h--now he leaves me.
When will he come again? Oh-h-h-h-h--When will he return to me?
I hope for my dear friend the utmost peace.
My voice is heavy, I sigh and draw my breath haltingly.
I look at the green surface of the water flowing to the East.
I grieve that the white sun hides in the West.
The wild goose has taken the place of the swallow--Oh-h-h-h-h--I
hear the pattering, falling noises of Autumn.
Dark are the rain clouds; the colour of the town of Ch'in is dark.
When the moon glistens on the Road of the Two-Edged
Sword--Oh-h-h-h-h--
I and you, even though in different provinces, may drink our wine
opposite each other,
And listen to the talking
Of our hearts.




HEARING A BAMBOO FLUTE ON A SPRING NIGHT IN THE CITY OF LO YANG

BY LI T'AI-PO


From whose house do the invisible notes of a jade flute come flying?
The Spring wind scatters them. They fill the City of Lo Yang.
To-night, as the phrases form, I hear "The Snapped Willow. "
To whom do they not bring back the love of his old, early garden?




THE RETREAT OF HSIEH KUNG

BY LI T'AI-PO


The sun is setting--has set--on the Spring-green Mountain.
Hsieh Kung's retreat is solitary and still.
No sound of man in the bamboo grove.
The white moon shines in the centre of the unused garden pool.
All round the ruined Summer-house is decaying grass,
Grey mosses choke the abandoned well.
There is only the free, clear wind
Again--again--passing over the stones of the spring.




A TRAVELLER COMES TO THE OLD TERRACE OF SU

BY LI T'AI-PO


The old Imperial Park--the ruined Terrace--the young willows.
The water-chestnut pickers are singing, a simple song unaccompanied
by instruments--but joy is unbearable.
For now the moon over the Western River is alone.
The time is past when she gazed upon the concubines in the Palace of
the King of Wu.




THEME OF THE REST-HOUSE ON THE CLEAR WAN RIVER

BY LI T'AI-PO


I love the beauty of the Wan River.
One can see its clear heart shining a hundred feet deep.
In what way does it not equal the river Hsin An?
For a thousand times eight feet one can see its bright bed,
The white sand keeps the colour of the moon.
The dark green bamboos accentuate the Autumn sounds.
Really one cannot help laughing to think that, until now, the rapid
current celebrated by Yen
Has usurped all the fame.




DRINKING SONG

BY LI T'AI-PO


Do you not see the waters of the Yellow River coming down from Heaven?
They rush with incredible speed to the sea, and they never turn and
come back again.
Do you not see, in the clear mirror of the Guest Hall, the miserable
white hair on my head?
At dawn it is like shining thread, but at sunset it is snow.
In this life, to be perfectly happy, one must drain one's pleasures;
The golden wine-cup must not stand empty opposite the moon.
Heaven put us here, we must use what we have.
Scatter a thousand ounces of silver and you are but where you were.
Boil the sheep,
Kill the ox,
Be merry.
We should drink three hundred cups at once.
Mr. Wise Gentleman Ts'en,
And you, Mr. Scholar Tan Ch'iu,
Drink, you must not stop.
I will sing one of my poems for you,
Please lean over and listen:
"Bells! Drums! Delicacies
Worth their weight in jade--
These things
Are of the slightest value.
I only want to be drunk
For ages and never wake.
The sages and worthies of old times
Have left not a sound,
Only those who drank
Have achieved lasting fame.
The King of Ch'ên, long ago, caroused
In the Hall of Peaceful Content.
They drank wine paid
At a full ten thousand a gallon;
They surpassed themselves in mirth,
And the telling of obscene stories.