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

The birds have all vaniahed into deep
skies. The last cloud drifts away, aimless.

Inexhaustible, Ching-t’ing Mountain and I
gaze at each other, it alone remaining.

translated by David Hinton

Soaring above the world’s horizon
the Peng’s strength failed halfway to heaven
I had enough wind for ten thousand generations
but my robe caught on the Sunrise Tree
I leave it behind for whoever finds it
Confucius is dead who’ll cry for me

translated by Red Pine

“Tell me now, what should a man want
But to sit alone, sipping his cup of wine?”
I should like to have visitors come and discuss philosophy
And not have the tax-collector coming to collect taxes:
My three sons married into good families
And my five daughters wedded to steady husbands.
Then I could jog through a happy five-score years
And, at the end, need no Paradise.

translated by Arthur Waley