From the traveler, singing; from the field, weeping—both spur sorrow.
Fires in the distance, dipping stars move slowly toward extinction.
Am I waiting up for New Year’s Eve? Aching eyes won’t close.
No one here speaks my dialect: I long for home.
A double quilt and my feet still cold—the frost must be heavy;
my head feels light—I washed it and the hair is getting thin.
I thank the flickering torch that doesn’t refuse
to keep me company on a lonely boat through the night.

translated by Burton Watson

In the village there is a crying child;
Wail upon wail, it calls for its mother.
Its mother is dead; blood soaks her clothing,
But still she clasps it to her breast to suckle.

translated by William Schultz

I don’t want to come, yet suddenly I’m here;
I don’t want to go, and suddenly I’m gone.
Don’t know where I’ve come from or where I’m going.
In this, of course, there is true waxing and waning.
Since Heaven can’t speak, I’ll tell on its behalf:
Just wait for Old Master Chaos to give back my life—
If he looks for me, he’ll naturally find me.

Translated by J.P. Seaton

At dawn I climb a river tower to its very highest storey,
The gentle and delicate look of departing sail is hard to bear.
The tide stretches a thousand yards below White Sand Pavilion;
Sending a homesick heart all the way back to Mo-ling.

translated by Daniel Bryant

One rain, and all the flowers done!
Third watch, and all the music still.
Except what strikes my ear and stays my sleep:
From windy branches the last drop falls.

translated by J.P. Seaton

Rain passes, washing the face of the mountain;
Clouds come, the mountain’s in a dream.
Clouds, rain, come and go as they please.
The green mountain, as always, is unmoved.

translated by J.P. Seaton