A bank of fine grass and light breeze
A tall-masted solitary night boat.
Stars descend over the vast wild plain;
The moon bobs in the Great River’s flow.
Fame: is it ever to be won in literature?
Office: I should give up, old and sick.
Floating, floating, what am I like?
Between earth and sky, a gull alone.

translated by James J.Y. Liu & Irving Y. Lo

sometimes
too many choices
are worse
than none at all
indecision
sets in
clouding the brain
which never deals well
with clouds
and one stands
on precipices
looking everywhere
but down
which is ultimately
where one goes
when stepping off
into the unknown

Where the sun has entered the western hills,
I look for a monk in his little straw hut;
But only the fallen leaves are at home,
And I turn through chilling levels of cloud.
I hear a stone gong in the dusk,
I lean full-weight on my slender staff. . .
How within this world, within this grain of dust,
Can there be any room for the passions of men?

translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu

As the holiday approaches, and grasses are bright after rain,
And the causeway gleams with willows, and wheatfields wave in the wind,
We are thinking of our kinfolk, far away from us.
O cuckoo, why do you follow us, why do you call us home?

translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu