Poetry

Ruan Ji was lazy about work,Xi Kang was lax in his attitude.Whenever they'd meet, they'd drink their fill,When they sat alone, they'd write a few lines.In my small pond I'll raise some cranesAnd on my fallow field graze some pigs.Grass grows on Yuanliang's path,Flowers shade Ziyun's place.I lie on my couch, watch my wife weaving,Climb a hillock, and teach my son about hoeing.I turn my head back in search of transcendents,But it's just an empty nothing

Wang Ji (The Farmstead) around 630CE

secret garden in a secondary palace is better than the Isles of Ying,

With its own transcendents, among caves and gullies hidden.The look of trees beside the cliffs contain a windy chill;The sound of a fountain on the stones carries rainy autumn.Birds face the music mats, coming to make song;Clouds lean on the canopied hall, twisting to create a tower.Though this lowly vassal was once ashamed before your Fangming charioteer,Today I will accompany your Eight Steeds on a journey

Song Zhiwen 680CE The Secret Garden in a Secondary Palace

I roam alone out past a thousand miles,Lay down aloft west of Seven-Basin.Dawn's moon nears, peeking into my window.Heaven's river droops, entering my door.In fragrant spring the gingkoes turn green,In clear night the cuckoo cries.This rambler pointlessly lingers to listen—From Baocheng I hear daylight's rooster

Shen Quanqi around 700 Spending the Night at the Seven Basin ridge

An old friend, having made some chicken and millet,Asks me over to his farmstead home.The verdant trees converge at the edge of town,And green mountains lie aslant beyond its walls.We unroll mats, look at the garden's threshing grounds,Grab drinks, and speak of mulberry and hemp.I'll wait until the Day of Doubled YangAnd come back for your chrysanthemums.

Meng Haoran: Stopping by an Old Friend's Estate early 8th century

A drifting boat moors in the misty isles,This traveler's grief renews at dusk.The wilds empty, sky stoops to trees,The river clear, moon nears man

Meng Haoran: Staying by the River in Jiande early 8th century

New house at an opening in Meng Wall,Old trees among the last withered willows.Who else will comeTo grieve for what past people had?

Wang Wei 740-750 Wang Wei: Meng Wall Col

lFlying birds depart with no limit,Linked mountains turn autumn-hued again.Up and down Huazi HillWhat end is there to melancholic feelings?

Wang Wei: Huazi Hil 750 CE

I thatch a hut beneath an old wall,And sometimes climb upon the old wall.The old wall is not of the past—People today freely come and go

Pei Di Meng Wal Col 750CE

A pine breeze stirs in the setting sun,Grass dew dries on the way home.The glow of clouds invades shoeprints,The halcyon of hills brushes people's robes

Pei Di Huzai Hill 750CE

To see no one on empty hills,Hear only echoes of men's speech.Returning light enters deep woodsAnd shines again upon green moss

Wang Wei Deer Stockade 750

To see the cold hillsAnd be the only ones heading there,I don't understand matters of the deep woods—There's only traces of a deer.

Pei Di Deer Stockade 750

I ascend Taibai's peak in the westAnd finish climbing in evening sunlight.Taibai grants me word,And opens up Heaven's Gate for me.I pray to mount the chilly wind and leave—To go straight up through the floating clouds,Lift a hand that I may near the moon,And move forward as if there were no mountain!Once I've left Wugong,When would I return again?

Li Bai Climbing Taibai Peak 740CE

Sun shines on Incense Burner, emits a purple haze,Far off I see the waterfall, a river hanging before me.Its flying torrent goes straight down three thousand feet:I wonder if it's the Silver River, fallen from Ninefold Heaven.

Li Bai looking for waterfall on Mount Lu 740CE

The state is broken; mountains and rivers remain.It's spring by city walls, deep with grass and trees.Feeling the times, the flowers trickle forth tears,Regretting farewells, birds shock the heart.The beacon fires continue for three months—A note from home is worth ten thousand gold.My white hair's gone so thin from scratching,It's barely able to support a hatpin.

Du Fu Spring View 750CE

alone love hidden grasses sprouting by the stream,An oriole above calls deep within the trees.Spring currents bringing rain grow forceful at night,With no one at the wild docks, a skiff moves sideways by itself.

Wei Yingwu: "West Stream in Chuzhou" 750CE

A bit of rain,Mountain half sunlit.A long wind blows leaves on the western mountain,Its whistling fills the trees, cleansing mind and ears.Cranes in the clouds, startled, descend in a mess,And thoroughwort incense, having stopped, won't light.The wind turns, the rain settles, banana trees are wet:A droplet sometimes enters my daytime meditation.

Jiaoran: "Mountain Rain" 780CE

his man of seventy-three, whose body could soon die,Has vowed to open the perilous path and make a ferry crossing.Boats will visit here at night without turning over,And from now on, in the morning, people's shins will be spared suffering.The rumbling rapids over ten miles become the Yellow and Han Rivers,And the eight cold dark hells are transformed into sunny springtime.Although my body will die, my purpose will long remain,Secretly spreading compassion to people of the future

Bai Juyi: "Clearing the Eight-Sectioned Stony Rapids at Longmen (2 of 2)" 780CE

drink a cup of ale at dawnAnd tread on snow to visit the clear creek:The waves had frozen into knivesWhich hacked up the ducks and seagulls—Their feathers cut off overnight,Their bloody sounds sunk deep in the sand.I stood alone. What should I say?But thought in silence, my heart hissing in pain.Frozen blood can make no springtime—The spring it would make would produce inequality.Frozen blood can make no flowers—The flowers it would make would let out widows' cries.Deep, deep in this village of thorns and needles,Those frozen to death can hardly plow.

Meng Jiao Cold Creek 800CE

The rains have beaten the mountain flowers to nothing,Which fill the ground like broken brocade.I search far and wide for francolin fledglingsAnd pick up a cluster of mushrooms.

Guanxiu: Written in the Wilds in Spring (2 of 5)

rise at dawn, setting carriage bells in motion,And journey on, sad for my home town.Rooster sounds in the thatch inn's moon;Human footprints on the plank bridge's frost.Oak leaves descend on a mountain path,And tangerine blossoms brighten the post-station wall.As I long for a dream of Duling,Ducks and geese fill the winding pond

Wen Tingyun: Early Journey from Mount Shang