Mountains set apart over the river,
two peaks face each other. Reflecting

chill colors of shoreline pine, waves
shatter apart into rock-torn bloom.

Heaven’s distance borders ragged, haze
beyond clear sky and flashed cloud,

the sun sinks, a boat far off leaving
as I turn my head, deep in azure mist.

translated by David Hinton

Thirty thousand feet of white hair . . . .
It seems grief began long ago,

and yet, in the bright mirror I wonder
where all this autumn frost came from.

translated by David Hinton

Long like autumn, all desolute silence,
Autumn River will return you to sorrow.

Unable to gauge this wanderer’s sorrow,
I climb Ta-lou Mountain to the east

and gaze west into Ch’ang-an distances.
Looking down at the river flowing past,

I call out to its waters: So how is it
you’ll remember nothing of me, and yet

you’d carry this one handful of tears
so very far—all the way to Yang-chou?

translated by David Hinton

Thoughts of you unending
here in Ch’ang-an,

crickets where the well mirrors year-end golds cry out
autumn, and under a thin frost, mats look cold, ice-cold.

My lone lamp dark, thoughts thickening, I raise blinds
and gaze at the moon. It renders the deepest lament

empty. But you’re lovely as a blossom born of cloud,

skies opening away all bottomless azure above, clear
water all billows and swelling waves below. Skies endless

for a spirit in sad flight, the road over hard passes
sheer distance, I’ll never reach you, even in dreams,

my ruins of the heart,
thoughts of you unending.

translated by David Hinton

Far away, I think of Wu Mountain light,
blossoms ablaze and a clear warm river.

Still here, something always keeping me
here, I face clouded southlands in tears.

Heartless as ever, spring wind buffeted
my dream, and your spirit startled away.

Unseen, you still fill sight. News is brief,
and stretching away, heaven never ends.

translated by David Hinton

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