You cannot hold it . . .
Pretty girls grow old
and indolent; there is an end to spring.
When breeze is warm and moon so fine,
if you can manage yellow gold, buy smiles.
Nurture the tender blossoms there, don’t wait.
No flowers to be plucked
from empty bough.

translated by J.P. Seaton

**though I wouldn’t personally choose the word “indolent” but the poet, or translator, did.

The fisherman’s awakening: spring river’s noon.
A dream cut short by falling petals, floating like silks.
Wine awakened, drunken still, and drunk, he’s still awake.
He smiles upon this world of men, both now and gone.

translated by J.P. Seaton

When the fisherman’s drunk, his straw cloak dances,
searching through drunkenness to find the way home.
Light skiff, the short oars akimbo:
and when he wakes up he never knows where.

translated by J.P. Seaton

Where does the fisherman go for a drink
when his fish and his crabs are sold?
He never sets himself a limit: just keeps on drinking till he’s drunk,
and neither he nor the bartender totes up his tab.

translated by J.P. Seaton

Green tiles, red railings
from a long way off this temple’s a delight.
Take the time to take it in,
then you won’t need to look back, turning
your head a hundred times.

River’s low: rocks jut.
Towers hide in whirling mist.
Don’t roar, don’t rail
against it. The sound would just fade
in that distance.

translated by J.P. Seaton

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

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

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

Most people expect their sons to be clever,
My whole life was ruined by cleverness.
I only wish my son to be dull and stupid
And without suffering or hardship to reach the highest rank.

translated by Chiang Yee