Where the sun has entered the western hills,
I look for a monk in his little straw hut;
But only the fallen leaves are at home,
And I turn through chilling levels of cloud.
I hear a stone gong in the dusk,
I lean full-weight on my slender staff. . .
How within this world, within this grain of dust,
Can there be any room for the passions of men?

translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu

The brocade ch’in has fifty strings: there’s no reason for it,
each string and bridge conjuring up another bloom of youth:

in a morning dream, Chuang Tzu’s confused with a butterfly,
and Emperor Wang’s death left his spring passion to a nightjar

scattered blood: moonlight on vast seas–it’s a pearl’s tear:
far off, Indigo Mountain jade smokes in warm sun: up close,

smoke vanishes: can this feeling linger even in a memory:
never anything but this moment already bewildered and lost.

translated by David Hinton

yet one more translation of one of his best known poems

Trees surround a wide pool, the moon casts many shadows;
Beyond the wind-blown vine, in the village and on the bank,
the pounding of wash and the sounds of the flute.
In the west pavilion, the kingfisher quilt leaves a fragrance that fades;
All through the night, my sorrow turns toward the wilted lotus.

translated  by Eugene Eoyang & Irving Y. Lo