Angler Garden New Year Drinking Love-sickness October: too much wind In Prison How Much Regret? Reminiscence The Past Birthday Life Spring Shower
Foamy tides, like snow-drifts, lingering; A battalion of plum trees silently blooming; A bottle of wine And a fishing line; Who in this world is my equal? The oar rips apart the spring water On which the leaf-like boat is floating. A tiny hook dangles At the end of a silk cord. The islet is covered with blossoms And my jug is full of wine. Upon these thousand acres of waves there is freedom.
The garden, deep and serene; The hall, vacant and small. Now and then, washerwomen's pounding mingles with the wind. In this eternal night, only a sleepless man hears the intermittent noises Stealthily brought to curtains by the moonlight.
Wind returns to this small court as lichens turn green. Her eyes and willow leaves make a sequence in spring. Leaning against the balustrade she remains long in silence. The new moon and the crackers are tediously the same as the past. The feast and the music have not yet ceased. In the pond, ice is beginning to melt. In the bright candlelight and the faint scent, and deeply hidden in the painted room, My temples, overladen with thoughts, are white like frost.
Last night, the wind and rain - Those autumnal sounds struck against the curtains and screens. The candle wept, the clepsydra dipped and I leaned against the head-rest. I rose, but found no peace. All mundane affairs should be thrown into the rier. Life is just a nightmare. The only safe path is down into the cellar. Any other route is not worth the fare.
Her hair: tied up with a ribbon And fixed with a jade pin; Her flowing robes, soft and thin; Between her adorned brows a shallow furrow.
October: too much wind
Accompanied by rain Beating on two or three palm trees. A helpless man in an endless night.
A rule of forty years; A kingdom of a thousand miles; The princely pavilions that rose to lofty heights; And the jade trees and bushes intertwined in a misty net - All these had never known the clash of arms. Now, captured and enslaved, My limbs grow frail and my temples grey. I shall never forget the hurried departure from the ancestral altar When the court musicians were playing a song of farewell And my eyes, imbued with tears, gazed at my maids.
How Much Regret?
How much regret, In a dream last night? I wandered back to my hunting lodge, as in the past: The chariots ran on like a stream And the horses galloped like flying dragons. The blossoms, the moonlight and teh gentle wind were the joy of spring. How many tears On my face and cheeks? I should not tell the secret in my heart, Nor should you play the phoenix flute while our eyes are still wet. For that would be too much to endure.
The red of the spring orchard has faded. Far too soon! The blame is often laid on chilling rain at dawn and the wind at dusk. The rouged tears That intoxicate and hold in thrall - When will they fall again? As a river drifts towards the east So painful life passes to its bitter end.
The beauty of the scenery cannot sweeten my bitter memories. In the courtyard, moss spreads over the steps despite the autumn wind. My bed curtains hang down for days, Since no one comes. The golden sword has long been buried And my ambitions have withered like weeds. In the cool and still sky the moon opens like a flower. The shadows of my old palaces Must now be aimlessly falling across the moats.
Spring flowers and autumn leaves, will they never end? How many things have happened? In this little tower, last night, the east wind blew once more. Can I bear to look back at the old country in the bright moon? The carved hand-rails and marble steps must still be there, But not my youthful cheeks. How much sadness can I bear? As much as an eastward-flowing river filled with spring water.
The sorrow in your heart is betrayed by a few grey hairs. Life is like empty mountain ranges Where snow awaits your visits; Yet you make your solitary retreat by the past in the wilderness.
Outside the curtains the rain is pattering As the season draws to its end. My satin bed-cover cannot keep out the chill at dawn. In the dream, I forgot that I was in exile, And for a time there was joy. Never lean against the balustrade in solitude. O, my mountains and rivers - It was so easy to part, But the return proves to be so hard. Spring, will you go with the falling petals and drifting currents To paradise? Let me remain a while.
中国诗歌库 中华诗库 中国诗典 中国诗人 中国诗坛 首页