Flocks of birds have flown high and away;
A solitary drift of cloud, too, has gone, wandering on.
And I sit alone with Ching-ting Peak, towering beyond.
We never grow tired of each other, the mountain and I.

translated by Shigeyoshi Obata

The living is a passing traveler;
The dead, a man come home.
One brief journey betwixt heaven and earth,
Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages.
The rabbit in the moon pounds the medicine in vain;
Fu-sang, the tree of immortality, has crumbled to kindling wood.
Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word
When the green pines feel the coming of spring.
Looking back, I sigh; looking before, I sigh again.
What is there to prize in the life’s vaporous glory?

translated by Shigeyoshi Obata

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

Green mountains draw a line beyond the Northern Rampart.
White water curls around the Eastern Wall.
This place? Good as any for a parting . . .
Ahead just the lonely briars where you’ll march ten thousand li.
Floating clouds: the traveler’s ambition.
Falling sun: your old friend’s feelings.
We touch hands, and now you go.
Muffled sighs, and the post horses, neighing.

translated by J.P. Seaton

It’s like boundless dream here in this
world, nothing anywhere to trouble us.

I have, therefore, been drunk all day,
a shambles of sleep on the fourth porch.

Coming to, I look into the courtyard.
There’s a bird among blossoms calling,

and when I ask what season this is,
an oriole’s voice drifts on spring winds.

Overcome, verging on sorrow and lament,
I pour another drink. Soon, awaiting

this bright moon, I’m chanting a song.
And now it’s over, I’ve forgotten why.

translated by David Hinton

Here, after wandering among these renowned
mountains, the heart grows rich with repose.

Why talk of cleansing elixirs of immortality?
Here, the world’s dust rinsed from my face,

I’ll stay close to what I’ve always loved,
content to leave that peopled world forever.

translated by David Hinton

Waking in the gallery
at dawn, and told it’s snowing,

I raise the blinds and gaze into pure good fortune.
Courtyard steps a bright mirage of distance,

kitchen smoke trails light through flurried skies,
and the cold hangs jewels among whitened grasses.

Must be heaven’s immortals in a drunken frenzy,
grabbing cloud and grinding it into white dust.

translated by David Hinton

Tangled grasses lie matted with death,
but generals keep at it. And for what?

Isn’t it clear that weapons are the tools of misery?
The great sages never waited until the need
for such things arose.

translated by David Hinton

I was just
shoving off
in my boat

when I heard
someone stomping
and singing on the shore!

Peach Blossom Lake
is a thousand feet deep

but it can’t compare
with Wang Lun’s love
or the way he said
goodbye

translated by David Young