Long like autumn, all desolute silence,
Autumn River will return you to sorrow.

Unable to gauge this wanderer’s sorrow,
I climb Ta-lou Mountain to the east

and gaze west into Ch’ang-an distances.
Looking down at the river flowing past,

I call out to its waters: So how is it
you’ll remember nothing of me, and yet

you’d carry this one handful of tears
so very far—all the way to Yang-chou?

translated by David Hinton

Thoughts of you unending
here in Ch’ang-an,

crickets where the well mirrors year-end golds cry out
autumn, and under a thin frost, mats look cold, ice-cold.

My lone lamp dark, thoughts thickening, I raise blinds
and gaze at the moon. It renders the deepest lament

empty. But you’re lovely as a blossom born of cloud,

skies opening away all bottomless azure above, clear
water all billows and swelling waves below. Skies endless

for a spirit in sad flight, the road over hard passes
sheer distance, I’ll never reach you, even in dreams,

my ruins of the heart,
thoughts of you unending.

translated by David Hinton

Far away, I think of Wu Mountain light,
blossoms ablaze and a clear warm river.

Still here, something always keeping me
here, I face clouded southlands in tears.

Heartless as ever, spring wind buffeted
my dream, and your spirit startled away.

Unseen, you still fill sight. News is brief,
and stretching away, heaven never ends.

translated by David Hinton

Having fathomed Tao, you went to dwell among simple villages
where bamboo grows thick, opening and closing your gate alone.

This isn’t a mission or pilgrimage. I’ve come for no real reason:
just to sit out on your south terrace and gaze at those mountains.

translated by David Hinton

On a moonlit island bridge, I think of mountain peaks, then
look down and mourn how water slips past. Who can know

distances? Tonight, I hear that sobbing from long ago again,
but gaze at a mountain moon and talk of this island bridge.

translated by David Hinton

Lumen Island and its city walls revealed in this painting: they
remind me how I once moored a boat there at West Pavilion,

but heart and mind given to old age can’t find long-ago times.
I rely on rivers and mountains for what’s ancient and remains.

translated by David Hinton

No light within the court, and moss climbs the stairs;
I move my couch, sit sprawled beneath the courtyard ash.
Cool clouds across the water, not likely it will rain;
Thin lightning leans against the mountain, no thunder yet.
In willows’ shade I watch paired magpies settle;
To bamboos’ depths from time to time come fireflies.
This great official feels drier than Hsiang-ju;
To quench that thirst, would I be thinking only of a single cup of dew?

translated by J.P. Seaton

A pair of red-collared swallows gently brush the waves:
From both banks, flowng foam and tiny ripples are born.
Heading south or north, two boats pass each other without a word,
As a sail in the wind cuts a swath on the river just for one instant.

translated by Irving Lo