Part 9

In Yang Chou, the blossoms are dropping. The night-jar calls. I hear it said that you are going to Lung Piao--that you will cross the Five Streams. I fling the grief of my heart up to the bright moon That it may follow the wind and arrive, straight as eyesight, to the West of Yeh Lang.

A PARTING GIFT TO WANG LUN

BY LI T'AI-PO

Li Po gets into a small boat--he is on the point of starting. Suddenly he hears footsteps on the bank and the sound of singing. The Peach-Flower Pool is a thousand feet deep, Yet it is not greater than the emotion of Wang Lun as he takes leave of me.

SAYING GOOD-BYE TO A FRIEND WHO IS GOING ON AN EXCURSION TO THE PLUM-FLOWER LAKE

BY LI T'AI-PO

I bid you good-bye, my friend, as you are going on an excursion to the Plum-Flower Lake. You should see the plum-blossoms open; It is understood that you hire a person to bring me some. You must not permit the rose-red fragrance to fade. You will only be at the New Forest Reach a little time, Since we have agreed to drink at the City of the Golden Mound at full moon. Nevertheless you must not omit the wild-goose letter, Or else our knowledge of each other will be as the dust of Hu to the dust of Yüeh.

A POEM SENT TO TU FU FROM SHA CH'IU CH'ÊNG

BY LI T'AI-PO

After all, what have I come here to do? To lie and meditate at Sha Ch'iu Ch'êng. Near the city are ancient trees, And day and night are continuous with Autumn noises. One cannot get drunk on Lu wine, The songs of Ch'i have no power to excite emotion. I think of my friend, and my thoughts are like the Wên River, Mightily moving, directed toward the South.

BIDDING GOOD-BYE TO YIN SHU

BY LI T'AI-PO

Before the White Heron Island--the moon. At dawn to-morrow I shall bid good-bye to the returning traveller. The sky is growing bright, The sun is behind the Green Dragon Hill; Head high it pushes out of the sea clouds and appears. Flowing water runs without emotions, The sail which will carry him away meets the wind and fills. We watch it together. We cannot bear to be separated. Again we pledge each other from the cups we hold in our hands.

A DESULTORY VISIT TO THE FÊNG HSIEN TEMPLE AT THE DRAGON'S GATE

BY TU FU

I had already wandered away from the People's Temple, But I was obliged to sleep within the temple precincts. The dark ravine was full of the music of silence, The moon scattered bright shadows through the forest. The Great Gate against the sky seemed to impinge upon the paths of the planets. Sleeping among the clouds, my upper garments, my lower garments, were cold. Wishing to wake, I heard the sunrise bell Commanding men to come forth and examine themselves in meditation.

THE THATCHED HOUSE UNROOFED BY AN AUTUMN GALE

BY TU FU

It is the Eighth Month, the very height of Autumn. The wind rages and roars. It tears off three layers of my grass-roof. The thatch flies--it crosses the river--it is scattered about in the open spaces by the river. High-flying, it hangs, tangled and floating, from the tops of forest trees; Low-flying, it whirls--turns--and sinks into the hollows of the marsh. The swarm of small boys from the South Village laugh at me because I am old and feeble. How dare they act like thieves and robbers before my face, Openly seizing my thatch and running into my bamboo grove? My lips are scorched, my mouth dry, I scream at them, but to no purpose. I return, leaning on my staff. I sigh and breathe heavily.

Presently, of a sudden, the wind ceases. The clouds are the colour of ink. The Autumn sky is endless--endless--stretching toward dusk and night. My old cotton quilt is as cold as iron; My restless son sleeps a troubled sleep, his moving foot tears the quilt. Over the head of the bed is a leak. Not a place is dry. The rain streams and stands like hemp--there is no break in its falling. Since this misery and confusion, I have scarcely slept or dozed. All the long night, I am soaking wet. When will the light begin to sift in? If one could have a great house of one thousand, ten thousand rooms-- A great shelter where all the Empire's shivering scholars could have happy faces-- Not moved by wind or rain, solid as a mountain-- Alas! When shall I see that house standing before my eyes? Then, although my own hut were destroyed, although I might freeze and die, I should be satisfied.

THE RIVER VILLAGE

BY TU FU

The river makes a bend and encircles the village with its current. All the long Summer, the affairs and occupations of the river village are quiet and simple. The swallows who nest in the beams go and come as they please. The gulls in the middle of the river enjoy one another, they crowd together and touch one another. My old wife paints a chess-board on paper. My little sons hammer needles to make fish-hooks. I have many illnesses, therefore my only necessities are medicines; Besides these, what more can so humble a man as I ask?

THE EXCURSION

A NUMBER OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN OF RANK, ACCOMPANIED BY SINGING-GIRLS, GO OUT TO ENJOY THE COOL OF EVENING. THEY ENCOUNTER A SHOWER OF RAIN

BY TU FU

I

How delightful, at sunset, to loosen the boat! A light wind is slow to raise waves. Deep in the bamboo grove, the guests linger; The lotus-flowers are pure and bright in the cool evening air. The young nobles stir the ice-water; The Beautiful Ones wash the lotus-roots, whose fibres are like silk threads. A layer of clouds above our heads is black. It will certainly rain, which impels me to write this poem.

II

The rain comes, soaking the mats upon which we are sitting. A hurrying wind strikes the bow of the boat. The rose-red rouge of the ladies from Yüeh is wet; The Yen beauties are anxious about their kingfisher-eyebrows. We throw out a rope and draw in to the sloping bank. We tie the boat to the willow-trees. We roll up the curtains and watch the floating wave-flowers. Our return is different from our setting out. The wind whistles and blows in great gusts. By the time we reach the shore, it seems as though the Fifth Month were Autumn.

THE RECRUITING OFFICERS AT THE VILLAGE OF THE STONE MOAT

BY TU FU

I sought a lodging for the night, at sunset, in the Stone Moat Village. Recruiting Officers, who seize people by night, were there. A venerable old man climbed over the wall and fled. An old woman came out of the door and peered. What rage in the shouts of the Recruiting Officers! What bitterness in the weeping of the old woman! I heard the words of the woman as she pled her cause before them: "My three sons are with the frontier guard at Yeh Ch'êng. From one son I have received a letter. A little while ago, two sons died in battle. He who remains has stolen a temporary lease of life; The dead are finished forever. In the house, there is still no grown man, Only my grandson at the breast. The mother of my grandson has not gone, Going out, coming in, she has not a single whole skirt. I am an old, old woman, and my strength is failing, But I beg to go with the Recruiting Officers when they return this night. I will eagerly agree to act as a servant at Ho Yang; I am still able to prepare the early morning meal." The sound of words ceased in the long night, It was as though I heard the darkness choke with tears. At daybreak, I went on my way, Only the venerable old man was left.

CROSSING THE FRONTIER

BY TU FU

I

When bows are bent, they should be bent strongly; When arrows are used, they should be long. The bow-men should first shoot the horses. In taking the enemy prisoner, the Leader should first be taken; There should be no limit to the killing of men. In making a kingdom, there must naturally be a boundary. If it were possible to regulate usurpation, Would so many be killed and wounded?

CROSSING THE FRONTIER

BY TU FU

II

At dawn, the conscripted soldiers enter the camp outside the Eastern Gate. At sunset, they cross the bridge of Ho Yang. The setting sunlight is reflected on the great flags. Horses neigh. The wind whines--whines-- Ten thousand tents are spread along the level sand. Officers instruct their companies. The bright moon hangs in the middle of the sky. The written orders are strict that the night shall be still and empty. Sadness everywhere. A few sounds from a Mongol flageolet jar the air. The strong soldiers are no longer proud, they quiver with sadness. May one ask who is their General? Perhaps it is Ho P'iao Yao.

THE SORCERESS GORGE

BY TU FU

Jade dew lies upon the withered and wounded forest of maple-trees. On the Sorceress Hill, over the Sorceress Gorge, the mist is desolate and dark. The ripples of the river increase into waves and blur with the rapidly flowing sky. The wind-clouds at the horizon become confused with the Earth. Darkness. The myriad chrysanthemums have bloomed twice. Days to come--tears. The solitary little boat is moored, but my heart is in the old-time garden. Everywhere people are hastening to measure and cut out their Winter clothes. At sunset, in the high City of the White Emperor, the hurried pounding of washed garments.

THINKING OF LI PO ON A SPRING DAY

BY TU FU

The poems of Po are unequalled. His thoughts are never categorical, but fly high in the wind. His poems are clear and fresh as those of Yü, the official; They are fine and easy as those of Pao, the military counsellor. I am North of the river Wei, looking at the Spring trees; You are East of the river, watching the sunset clouds. When shall we meet over a jug of wine? When shall I have another precious discussion of literature with you?

AT THE EDGE OF HEAVEN. THINKING OF LI T'AI-PO

BY TU FU

A cold wind blows up from the edge of Heaven. The state of mind of the superior man is what? When does the wild goose arrive? Autumn water flows high in the rivers and lakes.

They hated your essay--yet your fate was to succeed. The demons where you are rejoice to see men go by. You should hold speech with the soul of Yüan, And toss a poem into the Mi Lo River as a gift to him.

SENT TO LI PO AS A GIFT

BY TU FU

Autumn comes, We meet each other. You still whirl about as a thistledown in the wind. Your Elixir of Immortality is not yet perfected And, remembering Ko Hung, you are ashamed. You drink a great deal, You sing wild songs, Your days pass in emptiness. Your nature is a spreading fire, It is swift and strenuous. But what does all this bravery amount to?

A TOAST FOR MÊNG YÜN-CH'ING

BY TU FU

Illimitable happiness, But grief for our white heads. We love the long watches of the night, the red candle. It would be difficult to have too much of meeting, Let us not be in a hurry to talk of separation. But because the Heaven River will sink, We had better empty the wine-cups. To-morrow, at bright dawn, the world's business will entangle us. We brush away our tears, We go--East and West.

MOON NIGHT

BY TU FU

To-night--the moon at Fu Chou. In the centre of the Women's Apartments There is only one to look at it. I am far away, but I love my little son, my daughter. They cannot understand and think of Ch'ang An. The sweet-smelling mist makes the cloud head-dress damp, The jade arm must be chilly In this clear, glorious shining. When shall I lean on the lonely screen? When shall we both be shone upon, and the scars of tears be dry?

HEARING THE EARLY ORIOLE (WRITTEN IN EXILE)

BY PO CHÜ-I

The sun rose while I slept. I had not yet risen When I heard an early oriole above the roof of my house. Suddenly it was like the Royal Park at dawn, With birds calling from the branches of the ten-thousand-year trees. I thought of my time as a Court Official When I was meticulous with my pencil in the Audience Hall. At the height of Spring, in occasional moments of leisure, I would look at the grass and growing things, And at dawn and at dusk I would hear this sound. Where do I hear it now? In the lonely solitude of the City of Hsün Yang. The bird's song is certainly the same, The change is in the emotions of the man. If I could only stop thinking that I am at the ends of the earth, I wonder, would it be so different from the Palace after all?

THE CITY OF STONES. (NANKING)

BY LIU YÜ-HSI

Hills surround the ancient kingdom; they never change. The tide beats against the empty city, and silently, silently, returns. To the East, over the Huai River--the ancient moon. Through the long, quiet night it moves, crossing the battlemented wall.

SUNG TO THE TUNE OF "THE UNRIPE HAWTHORN BERRY"

BY NIU HSI-CHI

Mist is trying to hide the Spring-coloured hills, The sky is pale, the stars are scattered and few. The moon is broken and fading, yet there is light on your face, These are the tears of separation, for now it is bright dawn.

We have said many words, But our passion is not assuaged. Turn your head, I have still something to say: Remember my skirt of green open-work silk, The sweet-scented grasses everywhere will prevent your forgetting.

WRITTEN BY WANG WEI, IN THE MANNER OF CHIA, THE (PALACE) SECRETARY, AFTER AN IMPERIAL AUDIENCE AT DAWN IN THE "PALACE OF GREAT BRILLIANCE"

At the first light of the still-concealed sun, the Cock-man, in his dark-red cap, strikes the tally-sticks and proclaims aloud the hour. At this exact moment, the Keeper of the Robes sends in the eider-duck skin dress, with its cloud-like curving feather-scales of kingfisher green. In the Ninth Heaven, the Ch'ang Ho Gate opens; so do those of the Palaces, and the Halls of Ceremony in the Palaces. The ten thousand kingdoms send their ambassadors in the dresses and caps of their ranks to do reverence before the pearl-stringed head-dress. The immediately-arrived sun tips the "Immortal Palm"; it glitters. Sweet-scented smoke rises and flows about the Emperor's ceremonial robes, making the dragons writhe. The audience ended, I wish to cut the paper of five colours and write upon it the words of the Son of Heaven. My jade girdle-ornaments clash sweetly as I return to sit beside the Pool of the Crested Love-Pheasant.

THE BLUE-GREEN STREAM

BY WANG WEI

Every time I have started for the Yellow Flower River, I have gone down the Blue-Green Stream, Following the hills, making ten thousand turnings. We go along rapidly, but advance scarcely one hundred _li_. We are in the midst of a noise of water, Of the confused and mingled sounds of water broken by stones, And in the deep darkness of pine-trees. Rocked, rocked, Moving on and on, We float past water-chestnuts Into a still clearness reflecting reeds and rushes. My heart is clean and white as silk; it has already achieved Peace; It is smooth as the placid river. I long to stay here, curled up on the rocks, Dropping my fish-line forever.

FARM HOUSE ON THE WEI STREAM

BY WANG WEI

The slanting sun shines on the cluster of small houses upon the heights. Oxen and sheep are coming home along the distant lane. An old countryman is thinking of the herd-boy, He leans on his staff by the thorn-branch gate, watching. Pheasants are calling, the wheat is coming into ear, Silk-worms sleep, the mulberry-leaves are thin. Labourers, with their hoes over their shoulders, arrive; They speak pleasantly together, loth to part. It is for this I long--unambitious peace! Disappointed in my hopes, dissatisfied, I hum "Dwindled and Shrunken."

SEEKING FOR THE HERMIT OF THE WEST HILL; NOT MEETING HIM

BY CH'IU WEI

On the Nothing-Beyond Peak, a hut of red grass. I mount straight up for thirty _li_. I knock at the closed door--no serving boy. I look into the room. There is only the low table, and the stand for the elbows. If you are not sitting on the cloth seat of your rough wood cart, Then you must be fishing in the Autumn water. We have missed each other; we have not seen each other; My effort to do you homage has been in vain. The grass is the colour which rain leaves. From inside the window, I hear the sound of pine-trees at dusk. There is no greater solitude than to be here. My ears hear it; my heart spreads open to it naturally. Although I lack the entertainment of a host, I have received much--the whole doctrine of clear purity. My joy exhausted, I descend the hill. Why should I wait for the Man of Wisdom?

FLOATING ON THE POOL OF JO YA. SPRING

BY CHI WU-CH'IEN

Solitary meditation is not suddenly snapped off; it continues without interruption. It flows--drifts this way, that way--returns upon itself. The boat moves before a twilight wind. We enter the mouth of the pool by the flower path At the moment when night enfolds the Western Valley. The serrated hills face the Southern Constellation, Mist hangs over the deep river pools and floats down gently, gently, with the current. Behind me, through the trees, the moon is sinking. The business of the world is a swiftly moving space of water, a rushing, spreading water. I am content to be an old man holding a bamboo fishing-rod.

SUNG TO THE AIR: "THE WANDERER"

(COMPOSED BY SU WU IN THE TIME OF THE EMPEROR WU OF HAN)

BY MÊNG CHIAO

Thread from the hands of a doting mother Worked into the clothes of a far-off journeying son. Before his departure, were the close, fine stitches set, Lest haply his return be long delayed. The heart--the inch-long grass-- Who will contend that either can repay The gentle brightness of the Third Month of Spring.

FAREWELL WORDS TO THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE OF YANG

BY WEI YING-WU

Because of this, sad, sad has the whole day been to me. You must go forth and journey, far, very far. The time has come when you, the maiden, must go. The light boat ascends the great river. Your particular bitterness is to have none from whom you may claim support. I have cherished you. I have pondered over you. I have been increasingly gentle and tender to you. A child taken from those who have cared for it-- On both sides separation brings the tears which will not cease. Facing this, the very centre of the bowels is knotted. It is your duty, you must go. It is scarcely possible to delay farther. From early childhood, you have lacked a mother's guidance, How then will you know to serve your husband's mother? I am anxious. From this time, the support on which you must rely is the home of your husband. You will find kindness and sympathy, therefore you must not grumble; Modesty and thrift are indeed to be esteemed. Money and jewels, maid-servants and furnishings--are these necessary, a perfection to be waited for? The way of a wife should be filial piety, respect and compliance; Your manner, your conduct, should be in accord with this way. To-day, at dawn, we part. How many Autumns will pass before I see you? Usually I endeavour to command my feelings, But now, when my emotions come upon me suddenly, they are difficult to control. Being returned home, I look at my own little girl. My tears fall as rain. They trickle down the string of my cap and continue to flow.

SUNG TO THE AIR: "LOOKING SOUTH OVER THE RIVER AND DREAMING"

BY WÊN T'ING-YÜN

The hair is combed, The face is washed, All is done.

Alone, in the upper story of my Summer-house, I bend forward, looking at the river. A thousand sails pass--but among all of them the one is not. The slant sunlight will not speak, It will not speak. The long-stretched water scarcely moves.

My bowels are broken within me. Oh! Island of the White Water Flowers!

TOGETHER WE KNOW HAPPINESS

WRITTEN BY A DESCENDANT OF THE FOUNDER OF THE SOUTHERN T'ANG DYNASTY

Silent and alone, I ascended the West Cupola. The moon was like a golden hook. In the quiet, empty, inner courtyard, the coolness of early Autumn enveloped the wu-t'ung tree.

Scissors cannot cut this thing; Unravelled, it joins again and clings. It is the sorrow of separation, And none other tastes to the heart like this.

ONCE MORE FIELDS AND GARDENS

BY T'AO YÜAN-MING

Even as a young man I was out of tune with ordinary pleasures. It was my nature to love the rooted hills, The high hills which look upon the four edges of Heaven. What folly to spend one's life like a dropped leaf Snared under the dust of streets, But for thirteen years it was so I lived.

The caged bird longs for the fluttering of high leaves. The fish in the garden pool languishes for the whirled water Of meeting streams. So I desired to clear and seed a patch of the wild Southern moor. And always a countryman at heart, I have come back to the square enclosures of my fields And to my walled garden with its quiet paths.

Mine is a little property of ten _mou_ or so, A thatched house of eight or nine rooms. On the North side, the eaves are overhung With the thick leaves of elm-trees, And willow-trees break the strong force of the wind. On the South, in front of the great hall, Peach-trees and plum-trees spread a net of branches Before the distant view.

The village is hazy, hazy, And mist sucks over the open moor. A dog barks in the sunken lane which runs through the village. A cock crows, perched on a clipped mulberry.

There is no dust or clatter In the courtyard before my house. My private rooms are quiet, And calm with the leisure of moonlight through an open door.

For a long time I lived in a cage; Now I have returned. For one must return To fulfil one's nature.

SONG OF THE SNAPPED WILLOW

WRITTEN DURING THE LIANG DYNASTY

When he mounted his horse, he did not take his leather riding-whip; He pulled down and snapped off the branch of a willow-tree. When he dismounted, he blew into his horizontal flute, And it was as though the fierce grief of his departure would destroy the traveller.

THE CLOUDY RIVER

(FROM THE "BOOK OF ODES")

How the Cloudy River glitters-- Shining, revolving in the sky! The King spoke: "Alas! Alas! What crime have the men of to-day committed That Heaven sends down upon them Confusion and death? The grain does not sprout, The green harvests wither, Again and again this happens. There is no spirit to whom I have not rendered homage, No sacrifice I have withheld for love. My stone sceptres and round badges of rank have come to an end. Why have I not been heard?