A light wind is rippling at the grassy shore. . .
Through the night, to my motionless mast,
The stars lean down from open space,
And the moon comes running up the river.
. . .If only my art might bring me fame
And free my sick old age from office!–
Flitting, flitting, what am I like
But a sand-snipe in the wide, wide world!
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu