Though I knew southern fields in song
long ago, I’d never walked out into them.

Invariably hungry, Yen prefected wisdom,
but how can I ignore spring breaking out

here? At dawn, loading up my cart and
setting out, I already feel far away.

Birds sing, celebrating the new season.
Cool winds bring blessings in abundance,

and in these distances empty of people,
bamboo crowds country paths. Now I see

why that farmer laughing at Confucius
lived so far away and never went back.

My way seems childish to the world-wise,
but what I nurture here never grows thin.

translated by David Hinton

Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other

away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re

frail, crumbling with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once

that bleached streamer’s tucked into your
hair, the road ahead starts closing in.

This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I another guest leaving. All this

leaving and leaving—where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.

translated by David Hinton

Boundless, the lake’s immaculate
skin boundless, I rinse myself

clean. The view all distance,
all distance inciting delight,

I look deep. They say if you’re
content you’re satisfied easily

enough. Raising this winecup, I
smile, taken by earth’s own joy.

translated by David Hinton