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

We came of age, and were made man and wife.
Seventeen years have gone by since then.
I still have not tired of gazing at her face
but now she has left me forever.
My hair has nearly turned white,
Can this body hold out much longer?
When the end comes I’ll join her in the grave;
until my death, the tears flow on and on.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

I long regret I can’t master my own body,
Much less come to terms with worldly problems.
Night advances, quiet breeze quivers on ripples.
How I wish to sail away in my little skiff
And high on the waters, live out the rest of my life.

translated by Michael E. Workman

Master T’ao, I can’t compete with you!
Forever snarled up in official business,
what can I do to break away,
live just once a life like yours?
Thorns grow in the field of the mind;
clear them and there’s no finer place.
Free the mind—let it move with the world
and doubt nothing it finds there!
In wine I stumbled on unexpected joy.
Now I always have an empty cup in hand.

translated by Burton Watson

From the boat watching hills—swift horses:
a hundred herds race by in a flash.
Ragged peaks before us suddenly change shape,
ranges behind us start and rush away.
I look up: a narrow road angles back and forth,
a man walking it, high in the distance.
I wave from the deck, trying to call,
but the sail takes us south like a soaring bird.

translated by Burton Watson

Tranquil and serene, the night
Seems to last forever.
Yet we are seldom happy.
We all dream of Ch’ang An
And long to take the road back to the capital,
And see this year again the beauty of Spring, come with
Moonlight and shadow on the new flowers.
Although the food is simple, as are the cups,
The wine is good, the plums sour.
That is enough to satisfy us.
We drink and deck our hair with flowers
But do not laugh,
For we and the Spring grow old.

translated by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung

Bad wine is like bad men,
deadlier in attack than arrows or knives.
I collapse on the platform;
victory hopeless, truce will have to do.
The old poet carries on bravely,
the Zen master’ words are gentle and profound.
Too drunk to follow what they’re saying,
I’m conscious only of a red and green blur.
I wake to find the moon sinking into the river,
the wind rustling with a different sound.
A lone lamp burns by the altar,
but the two heroes—both have disappeared.

translated by Burton Watson

In wine I stumbled on unexpected joy.
Now I always have an empty cup in hand.

translated by Burton Watson

I get drunk alone, sober up alone,
the night air boundlessly fresh.
I’ll send word to the monk Shao,
have him bring his zither and play under the moon,
and then we’ll board a little boat
and in the night go down the Ts’ang-wu rapids.

translated by Burton Watson