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The Late Shen Xiaxian
To your clear voice, who could echo in chorus or answer in verse?
Here on grassy paths gone to moss and weeds, if sought, you are not found.
Dreaming, from dusk into night, at the foot of Little Fu Mountain.
Water, a circle of jade; moon, a silver silk panel over the heart.
--Du Mu
Summer Palace
Faded old travel palace.
Solitary red flowers.
Idle gray-haired ladies speak
of Emperor Li Long Ji.
--Yuan Zhen
A River Village Moment
Done fishing. Back home, not tying up the boat.
Sleeping sound in the light of the falling moon:
Should the night wind blow the boat away, away's
as far as the reeds of the nearby shallows.
--Sikong Shu
Saying Goodbye on the Plain of Ancient Ruins
Grasses growing lush on the plain
year after year wither and flourish.
No wildfire can consume them all.
In winds of spring they grow again.
Their bright green reaches the far ruined wall.
Their fragrance flows over the ancient road.
Once again we say goodbye here,
a place lush with feelings of parting.
--Bai Juyi
A QUESTION FOR LIU SHIJIU
Green bubbles in the new wine.
Red embers in a small stove.
Evening, and it looks like snow.
Could you drink a cup, perhaps?
--Bai Juyi
In the Hills, a Plum Tree Flowers in a Small Garden
Blossoms all have shaken down, and alone
it casts a warm beauty over the garden,
whose slender shadows lie on shallow ponds.
A faint fragrance drifts under a dun moon.
Snowbirds, landing, look again, to see
what dusty butterflies would faint to know.
Lucky me, making friends with whispered verse—
who needs golden goblets or rhythm sticks?
--Liu Bu
Meeting is hard and parting is harder.
The east wind slackens and flowers wither.
The spring silk worm spins silk till it dies.
The wax candle sheds tears till it's ash.
Morning mirror, fretting over disordered hair.
Midnight chanting, not feeling the cold.
Penglai, the faerie mountain, is somewhere near.
Bluebird, would you spy it out for me.
--Li Shangyin
South Lake is the sum of three rivers.
Mount Lu is the master of all hills.
White sand cleans the river course.
Green pines color the crag heads.
When did the water begin to flow?
When did the mountain begin to be?
Human fate is ever changing.
These forms are alone enduring.
In all the near and far of the cosmos,
present becomes past; this order lasts.
--Chang Fangsheng
The Cicada
In the first place,
however refined you are
and able to live on wind and dew,
they will never satisfy your hunger.
So why keep up your bitter cry?
By the fifth hour
your voice is weak and hoarse
in the green, indifferent tree.
I'm just a minor functionary,
a drifting twig.
And the old fields at home
lie wasted and full of weeds.
So thank you for reminding me
that my family has a long history
of pure character.
Thoughts in the Cold
My guests have all gone,
the river rises to my doorstep,
cicadas cease whirring,
branches fill with dew:
a time when you fill my heart,
the time that passes while I stand
still beneath the Big Dipper,
more distant than spring.
Here beyond the edge
of your Nanjing sky
no messenger comes.
I am left with only
my dreams to divine
if you've found a new friend.
--Li Shangyin
To the Festival Plateau
Feeling oppressed toward evening,
I drive up to this ancient site.
The sun blazes a moment more
before the yellow dusk follows.
--Li Shangyin
1 朱雀橋邊野草花
2 烏衣巷口夕陽斜
3 舊時王謝堂前燕
4 飛入尋常百姓家
To the Festival Plateau
Feeling oppressed toward evening,
I drive up to this ancient site.
The sun blazes a moment more
before the yellow dusk follows.
--Li Shangyin
1 朱雀橋邊野草花
2 烏衣巷口夕陽斜
3 舊時王謝堂前燕
4 飛入尋常百姓家
The Spring Song of Lady Night
The spring woods
hold flowers of great beauty.
The spring birds
cause thoughts of great grief.
The spring breeze has also great feeling,
blowing open
my gauzy silk skirt.
--Anon., 300-600 C.E.
Lost, a whole army,
before the gates of a city,
the year before last
fighting the Yuezhi.
Lost, the torn, scattered tents,
with no one to collect them.
There were only the tattered banners
on horses straggling back.
Lost, any news of you,
along the way from Tibet.
What offerings can I make
if your fate is unknown?
Lost, you and I to each other,
whether or not you still live.
I offer these tears
from far, far away.
--Zhang Ji
This road here runs
up to white clouds.
Spring is as long
as the clear stream.
At times fallen petals
float by,
flowing off
on scented water.
My door idles
on the mountain path.
My study's deep
in willow shade;
my sleeves, sunlit
on sunny days.
--Liu Shenxu
Autumn Song of Lady Night
Opening the window
to the autumn moon,
she puts out the candle,
slipping off her silk skirt.
And suppressing a smile
within the curtained bed,
she arches her body,
spreading orchid fragrance
--Anon.
Playing the Zheng for General Zhou
While playing the zheng
with millet-gold posts,
her fair hands moving
over the jade frame,
hoping that Zhou Yu
will turn and look,
every so often
she plucks the wrong note.
--Li Duan
She, who was in her rooms without sorrow,
turned out for spring, ascends the jade tower,
and, struck by a willow green in the field,
sighs for sending him off to seek titles.
--Wang Chiangling
Grasses grow rank around Red Bird Bridge.
Sun sets in the street of mansions.
Swallows from peeling painted eaves
swoop across the doorways of common folk.
--Liu Yuxi
1 朱雀橋邊野草花
2 烏衣巷口夕陽斜
3 舊時王謝堂前燕
4 飛入尋常百姓家
1 朱雀橋邊野草花
2 烏衣巷口夕陽斜
3 舊時王謝堂前燕
4 飛入尋常百姓家
On the Qinhuai River
With moonlight on sand and mist on cold water,
I tie up by a tavern on the river.
I hear a girl sing, with nothing of his grief,
the captive king's "Blossom of the Inner Court."
--Du Mu
DRINKING ALONE
Wind blows snow straight across the window.
Curl around the stove, open the wine,
and, as a fishing boat in the rain,
Sail asleep down the autumn river.
--Du Mu
Number 14 of the 19 Music Bureau Poems
Gone and daily receding,
coming and daily more near.
Looking straight out the city gate:
mounds and hills, mounds and hills.
Ancient graves are plowed into fields.
Pine and cypress destroyed for kindling.
Winds of sorrow out of white poplars.
The swishing sound of the axe men.
Dwelling on returning home--
no track, no trace of a road.
No way there from this longing.
Life is without root or stem,
drifting like dust over sand,
then blown away by the wind.
This already wispy thing.
--Tao Yuanming (Tao Qian)
