On a white horse bridled in gold, I go east of Liao-hai,
spread embroidered quilts, fall asleep in spring winds.

The moon sets, lighting my porch, probing dark lamps.
Blossoms drift through the door, smile on my empty bed.

translated by David Hinton

After wine, I go out into the fields,
wander open country—singing,

asking myself how green grass
could be a white-haired old man.

But looking into a bright mirror,
I see him in my failing hair too.

Blossom scent seems to scold me.
I let grief go, and face east winds.

translated by David Hinton

From the walls of Po-ti high in the coloured dawn
To Kiang-ling by night-fall is three hundred miles,
Yet monkeys are still calling on both banks behind me
To my boat these ten thousand mountains away.

Translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu