It’s been a few years since I planted this sweet thing
my cheeks aren’t the same as its blooms anymore
henceforth I won’t speak of spring anymore
looking at this old bush then this old man

translated by Red Pine

Forbidden gate, palace trees, a moon’s flitting trace,
seductive eyes gaze askance at night-nesting egrets.
Leaning, she plucks her jade hairpin in the lamplight,
Pricks apart the ruddy flame to save a flying moth.

translated by Ronald C. Miao

I’ve always known that old age would arrive,
and suddenly now I witness its encroach.
This year, luckily, I’ve not weakened much
but gradually it comes to seek me out.
Teeth scattered, hair grown short,
To run or hurry, I haven’t the strength.
So, I cry, what’s to be done!
And yet, why should I suffer?
P’eng-tsu and Lao Tzu no more exist;
Chuang Tzu and K’ung Tzu too are gone.
Of those whom the ancients called “immortal saints”
not one is left today.
I only wish for fine wine
and friends who will often help me pour.
Now that spring is drawing to a close
and peach and plum produce abundant shade
and the sun lights up the azure sky
and far, far, the homeward goose cries,
I step outside, greeting those I love,
and climb to the western woods with the aid of my staff.
Singing out loud is enough to cheer me up;
the ancient hymns have overtones.

translated by Jan W. Walls

Deer gather in flocks by nature;
What man comes up to these white clouds?
In the mountains there are no worldly concerns:
To the end of my days mellowed in wine.

translated by William H. Nienhauser

I am a man who’s made no name, already I’ve grown old,
Wandering hungry three years on barren mountain roads.
In Ch’ang-an the ministers are all young men;
Wealth and fame must be earned before a man grows old.
In the mountains here are scholars who knew me long ago.
We only think of the good old days, our hearts full of pain.

Alas! This is my seventh song, oh! with sorrow I end the refrain,
Looking up to the wide sky where the white sun rushes on.

translated by Geoffrey Waters

Shall I ask the willow trees on the dike
For whom do they wear their green spring dress?
In vain I saunter to the places of yesterday,
And I do not see yesterday’s people.
Weaving through myriad courtyards and village squares,
Coming and going, the dust of carriages and horses—
Do not say I have met with no acquaintances:
Only they are not those close to my heart.

translated by Irving Y. Lo

The boatman of Ts’ang-lang is quite old,
But his heart is as clean as flowing water.
He never talks about where he lives,
And nobody knows exactly what his name is.
At dawn he cooks on the riverbank;
Nightfalls, he glides into the rushes and sleeps.
He sings, too, one song after another,
And he holds in hand a bamboo pole:
The line at the end of the fishing pole
Is more than ten feet long.
He rows and rows, following where the river goes,
And he doesn’t have a permanent abode.
How can anyone in the world imagine
What the old man really thinks?
The old man looks for what he himself thinks fit,
And he never cares about the fish.

translated by C.H. Wang