Seventeen Old Poems

On and on, always on and onAway from you, parted by a life-parting.Going from one another ten thousand “li,”Each in a different corner of the World.The way between is difficult and long,Face to face how shall we meet again?The Tartar horse prefers the North wind,The bird from Yüeh nests on the Southern branch.Since we parted the time is already long,Daily my clothes hang looser round my waist.Floating clouds obscure the white sun,The wandering one has quite forgotten home.Thinking of you has made me suddenly old,The months and years swiftly draw to their close.I’ll put you out of my mind and forget for everAnd try with all my might to eat and thrive.

Green, green,The grass by the river-bank.Thick, thick,The willow trees in the garden.Sad, sad,The lady in the tower.White, white,Sitting at the casement window.Fair, fair,Her red-powdered face.Small, small,She puts out her pale hand.Once she was a dancing-house girl.Now she is a wandering man’s wife.The wandering man went, but did not return.It is hard alone to keep an empty bed.

Green, green,The cypress on the mound.Firm, firm,The boulder in the stream.Man’s life lived within this world,Is like the sojourning of a hurried traveller.A cup of wine together will make us glad,And a little friendship is no little matter.

Yoking my chariot I urge my stubborn horses.I wander about in the streets of Wan and Lo.In Lo Town how fine everything is!The “Caps and Belts” go seeking each other out.The great boulevards are intersected by lanes,Wherein are the town-houses of Royal Dukes.The two palaces stare at each other from afar,The twin gates rise a hundred feet.By prolonging the feast let us keep our hearts gay,And leave no room for sadness to creep in.

Of this day’s glorious feast and revelThe pleasure and delight are difficult to describe.Plucking the lute they sent forth lingering sounds,The new melodies in beauty reached the divine.Skilful singers intoned the high words,Those who knew the tune heard the trueness of their singing.We sat there each with the same desireAnd like thoughts by each unexpressed:“Man in the world lodging for a single life-timePasses suddenly like dust borne on the wind.Then let us hurry out with high stepsAnd be the first to reach the highways and fords:Rather than stay at home wretched and poorFor long years plunged in sordid grief.”

In the north-west there is a high house,Its top level with the floating clouds.Embroidered curtains thinly screen its windows,Its storied tower is built on three steps.From above there comes a noise of playing and singing,The tune sounding, oh! how sad!Who can it be, playing so sad a tune?Surely it must be Ch’i Liang’s wife.The tranquil “D” follows the wind’s rising,The middle lay lingers indecisive.To each note, two or three sobs,Her high will conquered by overwhelming grief.She does not regret that she is left so sad,But minds that so few can understand her song.She wants to become those two wild geeseThat with beating wings rise high aloft.

Crossing the river I pluck hibiscus-flowers:In the orchid-swamps are many fragrant herbs.I gather them, but who shall I send them to?My love is living in lands far away.I turn and look towards my own country:The long road stretches on for ever.The same heart, yet a different dwelling:Always fretting, till we are grown old!

A bright moon illumines the night-prospect:The house-cricket chirrups on the eastern wall.The Handle of the Pole-star points to the Beginning of Winter.The host of stars is scattered over the sky.

The white dew wets the moor-grasses,--With sudden swiftness the times and seasons change.The autumn cicada sings among the trees,The swallows, alas, whither are they gone?

Once I had a same-house friend,He took flight and rose high away.He did not remember how once we went hand in hand,But left me like footsteps behind one in the dust.

In the South is the Winnowing-fan and the Pole-star in the North,And a Herd-boy whose ox has never borne the yoke.A friend who is not firm as a great rockIs of no profit and idly bears the name.

In the courtyard there grows a strange tree,Its green leaves ooze with a fragrant moisture.Holding the branch I cut a flower from the tree,Meaning to send it away to the person I love.Its sweet smell fills my sleeves and lap.The road is long, how shall I get it there?Such a thing is not fine enough to send:But it may remind him of the time that has past since he left.

Far away twinkles the Herd-boy star;Brightly shines the Lady of the Han River.Slender, slender she plies her white fingers.Click, click go the wheels of her spinning-loom.At the end of the day she has not finished her task;Her bitter tears fall like streaming rain.The Han River runs shallow and clear;Set between them, how short a space!But the river water will not let them pass,Gazing at each other but never able to speak.

Turning my chariot I yoke my horses and go.On and on down the long roadsThe autumn winds shake the hundred grasses.On every side, how desolate and bare!The things I meet are all new things,Their strangeness hastens the coming of old age.Prosperity and decay each have their season.Success is bitter when it is slow in coming.Man’s life is not metal or stone,He cannot far prolong the days of his fate.Suddenly he follows in the way of things that change.Fame is the only treasure that endures.

The Eastern Castle stands tall and high;Far and wide stretch the towers that guard it.The whirling wind uprises and shakes the earth;The autumn grasses grow thick and green.

The four seasons alternate without pause,The year’s end hurries swiftly on.The Bird of the Morning Wind is stricken with sorrow;The frail cicada suffers and is hard pressed.Free and clear, let us loosen the bonds of our hearts.Why should we go on always restraining and binding?In Yen and Chao are many fair ladies,Beautiful people with faces like jade.Their clothes are made all of silk gauze.They stand at the door practising tranquil lays.The echo of their singing, how sad it sounds!By the pitch of the song one knows the stops have been tightened.To ease their minds they arrange their shawls and belts;Lowering their song, a little while they pause.“I should like to be those two flying swallowsWho are carrying clay to nest in the eaves of your house.”

I drive my chariot up to the Eastern Gate;From afar I see the graveyard north of the Wall.The white aspens how they murmur, murmur;Pines and cypresses flank the broad paths.Beneath lie men who died long ago;Black, black is the long night that holds them.Deep down beneath the Yellow Springs,Thousands of years they lie without waking.

In infinite succession light and darkness shift,And years vanish like the morning dew.Man’s life is like a sojourning,His longevity lacks the firmness of stone and metal.For ever it has been that mourners in their turn were mourned,Saint and Sage,--all alike are trapped.Seeking by food to obtain ImmortalityMany have been the dupe of strange drugs.Better far to drink good wineAnd clothe our bodies in robes of satin and silk.