Rapt in wine against the mountain rains,
dressed I dozed in evening brightness,
and woke to hear the watch drum striking dawn.
In dreams I was a butterfly,
my joyful body light.

I grow old, my talents are used up,
but still I plot toward the return . . .
to find a field and take a cottage
where I can laugh at heroes,
and pick my way among the muddy puddles
on a lakeside path.

translated by J.P. Seaton

With flute song, to the shore:
the setting sun, and I see you off.
On the lake, you looked back once:
white cloud, embracing the green mountains.

translated by J.P. Seaton

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

Setting sun shines on half the river . . .
This time of day I take walks alone.
Sunset can deepen sadness:
but autumn purifies the poet’s heart.
Birds peck a rotting willow:
Insects cling to its dying leaves.
I still feel homesick. Why?
Now that I’ve finally come home.

translated by J.P. Seaton