The sound grates on the river tower, one blast of the horn.
Pale sunlight floods, sinking by the cold shore.
Pointless to lean on the balcony and look back miserably:
There are seventy-five post-stations from here to home.

translated by A.C. Graham

Sadness at the hairs in the mirror is no longer new,
The stains on my coat are harder to brush away.
I waste my hopes by river and lakes, a fishing-rod in the hand
Which screens me from the Western sunlight as I look towards Ch’ang-an.

translated by A. C. Graham

When my hair first covered my forehead
I played at the gate picking flowers
you came riding a bamboo pole horse
we ran around the well throwing plums
we both lived in Changkan Village
two children without any guile
at fourteen I became your wife
I was too shy to smile
I bowed by the wall in the shadows
when you called I didn’t answer
then at fifteen I stopped frowning
your life and death became mine
I vowed never to leave you
so why am I climbing this lookout
when I turned sixteen you left on a journey
a journey to far off Chutang Gorge
impassable half the year
and gibbons howling from the cliffs
at the gate where you lingered before leaving
your footprints have since turned to moss
it’s too thick to sweep
and leaves are falling early
the yellow butterflies of autumn
are flying in pairs in our garden
the very sight hurts my heart
and drains the rose from my cheeks
when you finally head back through the Gorges
send a letter so I’ll know
I’ll come to meet you no matter how far
even to Changfeng Shoals

translated by Red Pine

still I journeyed west to present my “Tall Poplar Ode”
but I couldn’t wait for the clouds to lift from palace gates
I decided to spend old age on East Mountain
by chance we met near Wei River Bridge
and said goodbye again at Tsuo Terrace
you asked if I knew how much you hated parting
it was late spring and petals were raining down
there was no end to our words
and no limit to our hearts
I’m calling the boy to come seal this letter
I’m sending you my feelings from too far away

translated by Red Pine

Morning rain dampens the dust in Weicheng
new willow branches have turned the inn green
drink one more cup of wine my friend
west of Yang Pass there’s no one you know

translated by Red Pine

The first dew of fall wets palace steps
it soaks her silk slippers late at night
lowering the crystal bead curtain
she gazes at the shimmering autumn moon

translated by Red Pine