Stone cliffs and clumps of bamboo,
river pavilions and small towers—
the sound of the rapids clarifies the traveler’s dreams;
in the shadow of the lamp the poet’s sadness grows.

The first day of spring has vanished,
and soon the full-moon festival will pass.

What is making me unhappy,
making me knit my brow like this?

translated by Jonathan Chaves

Painted barrages like mountains floating on the water;
small boats like ducks avoiding the shore;
red banners, green canopies, the clang of gongs—
people everywhere, saying hello or saying goodbye.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

Here turtles and fish turn back,
and even the crabs are worried.
But for some reason poets risk their lives
to run these rapids and swirl past these rocks.

translated by Jonathan Craves

The poet must work with brush and paper,
but this is not what makes the poem.
A man doesn’t go in search of a poem—
the poem comes in search of him.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

T’ao Ch’ien forgot words
when he experienced reality.
Today his experience is still alive in your pavilion.
If a guest should ask you “What is this ‘reality’?”
say: “A person’s image is a mirror,
the sky reflected in water.”

translated by Jonathan Chaves