Now high autumn has cleared my lungs, I can
Comb this white hair myself. Forever needing
A little more, a little less—I’m sick of drug-cakes.
The courtyard miserably unswept—I bow

To a guest, clutching my goosefoot cane. Our
Son copies my idylls on bamboo they praise.
By November, the river steady and smooth again,
A light boat will carry me anywhere I please.

translated by David Hinton

I invade cold dew on a cane, thatch houses
Trailing smoke out into dawn light. Old,
Frail, dozing among scattered books my limit
Now, I rest often against roadside trees.

Autumn passes. What once drove me ends.
Nothing but your friendship could bring me
Here. Sipping thick wine with you, our small
Talk crystal clear. I forget the years lost.

translated by David Hinton

Chiang-han mountains looming impassable,
A cloud drifts over this far corner of earth.
Year after year, nothing familiar, nothing
Anywhere but one further end of the road.

Here, Wang Ts’an found loss and confusion,
And Ch’ü Yüan cold grief. My heart already
Broken in quiet times—and look at me,
Each day wandering a new waste of highway.

translated by David Hinton

Having long heard about Tung-t’ing Lake,
At last I climb Yo-yang Tower. Wu and Ch’u
Spread away east and south. All
Heaven and Earth, day and night adrift,

Wavers. No word from those I love. Old.
Sick. Nothing but a lone boat. And
North of frontier passes—Tibetan horses.
I lean on the railing, and tears come.

translated by David Hinton

Every province and kingdom under heaven fronting on
the Great Wall, no city has avoided shield and sword.

Why can’t the weapons be cast into ploughshares,
and every inch of abandoned field tilled by oxen?

Tilled by oxen,
spun by silkworms:

don’t condemn heroes to weep like heavy rains, leave
men to grain, women to silk—let us go in song again.

translated by David Hinton

Another night on the water: last light,
Woodsmoke again, and then this station. Here
Beyond the lake, against the enduring white of
Shoreline sand, fresh green reeds. Occurrence,

Ch’i’s ten thousand forms of spring—among
All this, my lone craft is another Wandering Star.
Carried by waves, the moon’s light limitless,
I shade deep into the pellucid southern darkness.

translated by David Hinton

Ma Jung’s flute sings. Helpless, I hold
My tunic open, like Wang Ts’an, looking out
Toward a cold homeland full of sadness.
The sorrowful year blackened over by cloud,

White houses vanish along the water in fog.
Over the maple shoreline, green peaks rise.
It aches. Winter’s malarial fire aches,
And the drizzling rain won’t stop falling.

Ghosts they welcome here with drums bring
No blessings. Crossbows kill nothing but owls.
When my spirits ebb away, I feel relieved.
And when grief comes, I let it come. I drift

Outskirts of life, both sinking and floating,
Occurrence become its perfect ruin of desertion.

translated by David Hinton

Even in the city, come leaning on a cane,
I gaze at stream-side blossoms. Here
Mountain markets close early, and riverboats
Gather at the bridge in spring. Lighthearted

Gulls flutter among white waves. Returning
Geese delight in blue skies. All things shade
Together in earth’s passion. But I, all
Disparate chill, I brood over years gone by.

translated by David Hinton

Drinking together among mountain blossoms, we
down a cup, another, and yet another. Soon drunk,

I fall asleep, and you wander off. Tomorrow morning,
if you think of it, grab your ch’in and come again.

translated by David Hinton

Traveling again in some distant place, I
Pause here to offer your lonely grave
Farewell. By now, tears haven’t left dry
Earth anywhere. Clouds drift low in empty

Sky, broken. Hsieh An’s old go partner,
Sword in hand, I come in search of Hsü,
But find only forest blossoms falling and
Oriole songs sending a passerby on his way.

translated by David Hinton