Spring, napped, unconscious of the dawn.
Everywhere, birdsong.
Night sounded, wind, and rain.
How many petals, now, have fallen?

translated by J.P. Seaton

Meeting is hard; parting, hard too.
The east wind’s feeble, yet the hundred flowers fall.
Spring silkworm spins its silk until it dies.
The candle sheds its tears till wick is ashes.
The morning mirror grieves. Clouds of hair are changing.
Song of the night, know moonlight’s cold.
From here to Mount P’eng the way’s not long
but the Green Bird is attentive, watches close.

translated by J.P. Seaton

I see you to Ku-su.
Homes there, sleeping by the stream.
Ancient palace, few abandoned spots.
And the harbor, many little bridges.
In the night market, lotus, fruit and roots.
On the spring barges, satins and gauze.
Know, far off, the moon still watches.
Think of me there, in the fisherman’s song.

translated by J.P. Seaton