Seven-Character Old-Style Poems

Yuan Jie — Drunken Song on Stone Fish Lake, with PrefaceStone Fish Lake is like Dongting Lake: in summer the waters swell around green Mount Jun.The mountain is our wine jar, the waters our pool; drinkers sit scattered over the islets.A great wind drives high waves day after day, yet no one stops bringing the boat of wine.I sit on Ba Hill with a long ladle, pouring for everyone to ease their sorrow.

Bai Juyi — Song of Everlasting SorrowThe Han emperor prized beauty and sought one to captivate a kingdom; for many years of rule his search was vain.The Yang family had a daughter just grown, kept in the inner rooms, unknown to the world.Beauty born in her could not remain hidden; one morning she was chosen to stand beside the king.She turned and smiled, and a hundred charms came alive; the painted beauties of the six palaces paled.In spring's cold he granted her a bath in Huaqing Pool; the warm water slid over her soft white skin.Attendants raised her, delicate and weak: this was the hour when favor first descended on her.Cloudlike hair, flowerlike face, a swaying golden ornament; beneath the warm hibiscus curtains they passed the spring night.The spring night seemed so short; the sun stood high when they rose, and from then on the king missed morning court.She served at feasts and pleasures without a moment free; through spring she followed him abroad, and night after night was hers alone.Three thousand beauties lived in the inner palace; the love for all three thousand gathered upon her.Adorned within her golden chamber, she waited tenderly by night; after a feast in the jade tower, she was drunk with spring.Her sisters and brothers were granted estates; what glorious splendor fell upon her family!So parents everywhere came to prize the birth of daughters over sons.The palace on Mount Li rose into the blue clouds; heavenly music rode the wind and sounded everywhere.Slow songs and graceful dances held the strings and flutes; all day the king could never see enough.War drums from Yuyang thundered over the earth, shattering the Song of Rainbow Skirts and Feather Coats.Dust and smoke rose about the ninefold palace gates; a thousand coaches and ten thousand horsemen fled southwest.His kingfisher banners swayed, advanced and stopped, more than a hundred miles west of the capital gate.The six armies refused to march; helpless, he watched those graceful brows perish before the horses.Her jeweled flowers lay upon the earth, uncollected, with green hairpins, golden birds, and jade combs.The king covered his face, powerless to save her; looking back, he wept tears mingled with blood.Yellow dust spread wide; the wind blew bleakly; cloud-high plank roads twisted up to Sword Gate.Few travelers passed beneath Mount Emei; banners lost their light and the sun shone faintly.The rivers of Shu were blue, the mountains green; morning and evening the sovereign's longing endured.In his traveling palace the moon was a heartbreaking sight; in night rain the bells broke his heart.When heaven turned and the royal carriage returned, he paused here, unable to move on.In the earth below Mawei Slope, no jade face remained; the place of death stood empty.The king and his courtiers looked at one another, their robes wet; facing east toward the capital, they let the horses take them home.Returned, he found the pools and gardens just as before: lotus in Taiye Pool, willows at Weiyang Palace.The lotus was like her face, the willows like her brows; how could he look at them without tears?When peach and plum blossoms opened in spring wind, when parasol leaves fell in autumn rain,Autumn grass grew thick around the western palace and southern garden; red leaves covered the stairs, unswept.The Pear Garden players had new white hair; the palace attendants had aged beyond their youth.Fireflies crossed the evening hall, where he sat lost in thought; the lone lamp guttered out before he could sleep.Slow bells and drums announced the long night's beginning; the bright Milky Way endured till daybreak.Frost lay heavy on the cold paired roof tiles; with whom could he share the kingfisher quilt?Year after year death kept them apart; her spirit had never once entered his dreams.A Daoist from Linqiong, a guest of the great capital, could summon a soul through the force of devotion.Moved by the king's ceaseless longing, they sent this adept to search diligently for her.He mounted the air and sped like lightning, searched throughout the heights of heaven and the depths of earth.Above to the blue firmament, below to the yellow springs: in those vast places she was nowhere found.Then he heard of an immortal mountain on the sea, somewhere between emptiness and distant mist.Delicate towers rose among five-colored clouds; many graceful immortals lived there.Among them was one named Taizhen; her snowy skin and flowerlike face seemed to be hers.He knocked at a jade door in the western wing of the golden palace, and sent Xiaoyu to tell Shuangcheng.Hearing that the Han emperor's envoy had come, she startled awake behind her nine-flowered curtains.She took up her clothes, pushed away her pillow, and rose to pace; pearl blinds and silver screens opened one after another.Her cloudlike hair was askew from sleep; her flower crown unfastened as she descended into the hall.Wind lifted her immortal sleeves, billowing like her dance of Rainbow Skirts and Feather Coats.Tears ran down her lonely jade face, a spray of pear blossoms wet with spring rain.Looking at him with feeling, she thanked the king: since parting, voice and face alike had vanished into distance.Their love had ended in Zhaoyang Hall; in Penglai Palace the days and months stretched long.Looking down toward the human world, she saw no Chang'an, only dust and haze.She had only her old belongings to show her enduring love, and sent back her jeweled box and golden hairpin.She kept one prong of the pin and one half of the box, splitting its gold and dividing its ornament.“If our hearts remain as steadfast as this gold and these jewels, we shall meet again in heaven or on earth.”At parting she gave him one more urgent message, an oath known only to their two hearts:“On the seventh night of the seventh month, in the Palace of Long Life, we whispered together at midnight when no one was near.In the sky, may we be birds flying wing to wing; on earth, branches of two trees grown as one.”Heaven and earth may one day end; this grief goes on forever, without end.

Bai Juyi — Song of the Pipa, with PrefaceIn the tenth year of Yuanhe, I was demoted to marshal of Jiujiang Prefecture. The following autumn, while seeing a guest off at the mouth of the Pen River, I heard someone playing the pipa at night aboard a boat. Its ringing tones had the sound of the capital. Asked about herself, she said she had once been a singing girl in Chang'an and had studied the pipa with the two master musicians Mu and Cao; as she grew older and her beauty faded, she became the wife of a merchant. I had wine brought and asked her to play several pieces freely. When she finished she fell silent and melancholy, then spoke of the pleasures of her youth and of her present decline, drifting from place to place among rivers and lakes. For two years since my posting outside the capital I had lived calmly, at peace with myself; but her words moved me, and for the first time that night I felt what exile meant. So I made her this song in long lines, six hundred and sixteen characters in all, and called it “Song of the Pipa.”At night beside the Xunyang River I saw a guest off; maple leaves and reed flowers shivered in autumn.The host dismounted, the guest sat in the boat; we raised wine to drink, but had no strings or flutes.We could find no joy in drunkenness, grieved at parting; as we parted the vast river held the moon.Suddenly we heard pipa music over the water; the host forgot to go home, the guest forgot to leave.Following the sound, we called softly to ask who played; the pipa stopped, and its player hesitated to speak.We moved our boat close and invited her to meet us, brought more wine, trimmed the lamp and opened the feast anew.Only after a thousand calls did she appear, still holding her pipa to hide half her face.She turned the pegs and plucked two or three notes; before a tune began, feeling was there.Each string held back its voice, each note held thought, as if telling of a life that had gone awry.Her eyes lowered, her hands played on and on, telling everything that lay unspoken in her heart.She gently swept and slowly rolled, brushed and plucked, first “Rainbow Skirts,” then “Green Waist.”The thick strings rumbled like a sudden rain; the thin strings murmured like whispered confidences.Deep notes and fine ones mingled together, like large and small pearls falling on a jade plate.An oriole's liquid song among flowers; a choked spring struggling beneath ice.The icy spring turned cold and rough, the strings fell silent; blocked, their sound paused for a moment.Another, hidden sorrow arose there, a secret grief: now silence was stronger than sound.Then a silver flask broke and water burst out; iron cavalry charged with clashing spears and swords.At the end she swept her pick across the strings: all four rang once, like silk rent in two.The boats east and west were silent, without a word; only the autumn moon shone white at the river's heart.In thought she put the pick between the strings, straightened her clothing, rose and composed her face.She said she was once a girl of the capital, and lived below Toad Hill.At thirteen she mastered the pipa, and her name was entered in the music school's foremost troupe.When she finished playing, even the masters yielded; when she dressed, even the famous beauties grew jealous.Young men of the Five Mausoleums competed to give her gifts; for one song, red silk streamed beyond counting.Jeweled combs broke as she beat time; spilled wine stained her blood-red silk skirt.One year of laughter followed another; autumn moons and spring winds passed without a thought.Her younger brother went off to war, her patroness died; evening and morning passed, and her beauty aged.The doorway grew desolate, with few saddles or horses; older now, she married a merchant.A merchant prizes profit and makes light of farewell; last month he went to Fuliang to buy tea.Since his departure she has guarded the empty boat at the river mouth; moonlight circles the boat, and the water is cold.Deep at night she dreams suddenly of her youth; waking in tears, she finds red streaks running through her makeup.I sighed when I heard the pipa, and now her words draw deeper sighs from me.Both of us have fallen to the ends of the earth; why must we have known each other before meeting?Last year I left the imperial capital, sent into exile, sick in the city of Xunyang.Xunyang lies remote from music; the whole year I hear no sound of strings or flutes.I live by the Pen River in the low damp ground; yellow reeds and bitter bamboo ring my home.What do I hear there from dawn to dusk? The cuckoo's bloody cry, the gibbons' mournful calls.On a flowering spring morning or beneath an autumn moon, I often bring wine and pour alone.There are mountain songs and village pipes, but their harsh and jarring sounds are hard to bear.Tonight your pipa spoke to me: as though I heard heavenly music, my ears suddenly cleared.Do not refuse to sit and play one more piece; for you I will turn it into a Song of the Pipa.Moved by my words, she stood a long while; then sat again, tightened the strings, and played more urgently.Its desolation was unlike her earlier music; hearing it, everyone covered their eyes and wept.Who among us shed the most tears? The marshal of Jiangzhou, whose blue robe was soaked.

Cen Shen — Song of Galloping Horse River, Sending Commander Feng on His Western CampaignHave you not seen Galloping Horse River by the Sea of Snow, its level sands stretching yellow into the sky?In September the wind roars by night at Luntai; stones as large as bushel baskets cover the valley, and the wind sends them rolling wildly over the ground.The steppe grass is yellow, the Xiongnu horses fat; west of Gold Mountain we see dust and smoke rise.A great general of Han marches west; the commander does not remove his golden armor even at night.At midnight the army marches, spears striking one another; the wind's edge cuts faces like a knife.Snow clings to the horses' coats, steaming with sweat; their dappled markings turn at once to ice.Inside the tent, as orders are written, the ink freezes in the stone; the enemy horsemen must tremble when they hear of it.Surely they will not dare close in hand-to-hand battle; at Jushi's western gate we wait for news of victory.

Cen Shen — Song of Luntai, Sending Commander Feng on His Western CampaignAt night the horns sound from Luntai's walls; north of the city the baleful star falls.Last night a feathered dispatch passed Quli: the chanyu is already west of Gold Mountain.Westward from the watchtower the dust is black; the Han army camps north of Luntai.The commander bears his yak-tail standard on the westward campaign; at dawn the flutes sound and the great army marches.Drums beat on every side till the Sea of Snow heaves; the three armies cry out and the Yin Mountains shake.The enemy's forts mass a warlike cloud; on the battlefield white bones twine with grass roots.At Sword River the wind is fierce and the snowflakes broad; at the sandy pass frozen stones strip the horses' hooves.The vice minister serves his sovereign, glad to bear such hardship, and swears to end the dust of war on the border.Who has not seen the ancient histories? Yet his deeds today surpass the men of old.

Cen Shen — Song of White Snow, Sending Magistrate Wu Home to the CapitalThe north wind rolls over the earth, breaking the white grass; in the northern lands snow falls in the eighth month.As if a spring wind had come overnight, a thousand trees, ten thousand trees, burst into pear blossom.It drifts through beaded curtains and wets the silk hangings; fox fur brings no warmth, brocade quilts are thin.The general cannot draw his horn bow; the commander's iron armor is too cold to wear.Across the desert ice spreads a hundred feet thick; clouds of grief congeal for ten thousand miles.At headquarters we set out wine for the homeward guest, with steppe fiddle, pipa, and Qiang flute.Evening snow falls thick at the camp gate; the wind pulls the red banner, but it is frozen stiff.At Luntai's eastern gate I see you off; as you go, snow fills the road through the Tianshan Mountains.The mountains turn, the road bends, and you are lost from sight; on the snow only your horse's tracks remain.

Li Bai — Song of Mount Lu, Sent to Censor Lu XuzhouI am the madman of Chu, singing my phoenix song to laugh at Confucius.With a green jade staff in my hand, I left Yellow Crane Tower this morning.Seeking immortals among the Five Peaks, no distance is too far; all my life I have loved to roam famous mountains.Mount Lu rises beautifully near the Southern Dipper; its ninefold screen unfolds like cloud brocade, its shadow falls on the bright lake, gleaming deep blue.Two long peaks open before the Golden Gate; the Milky Way hangs upside down from the three stone bridges.Incense Burner Peak and its waterfall face each other far apart; sheer cliffs and folded ridges climb into the azure.Green shadows and red mists shine in the morning sun; no bird can reach that vast Wu sky.High above, a grand sight stretches between heaven and earth: the great river flows endlessly away.Yellow clouds across ten thousand miles turn with the wind; white waves of nine channels roll like snowy mountains.Gladly I sing my song of Mount Lu, for Mount Lu has stirred my heart.At leisure I gaze in the stone mirror and cleanse my mind; blue moss covers the path where Lord Xie once walked.Soon I will take the elixir and let go of worldly feeling; with three turns of my zither-heart the Way first comes to fruition.Far away I see immortals in colored clouds, holding lotus flowers on their way to the Jade Capital.I have arranged to meet Hanman beyond the nine heavens; may I join Lu Ao and roam in the pure ether.

Li Bai — A Song of Traveling to Mount Tianmu in a Dream, Left at PartingSailors speak of Yingzhou, elusive amid smoky waves and hard indeed to find.People of Yue speak of Mount Tianmu, glimpsed now and then through vanishing clouds.Tianmu reaches across the sky and blocks heaven, rising above the Five Peaks, overshadowing Red City.Tiantai stands forty-eight thousand feet high, yet beside it seems ready to bow southeast.Longing for it, I dreamed of Wu and Yue, and flew in a night across Mirror Lake beneath the moon.The lake moon lit my shadow, escorting me to Shan Creek.The place where Lord Xie stayed still remains; clear waters ripple, and gibbons cry.I put on Lord Xie's wooden clogs and climbed the ladder of blue clouds.Halfway up the cliffs I saw the sun over the sea; in the air I heard the celestial cock.Through a thousand crags and ten thousand turns the path wandered; lost among flowers, I leaned on a rock, and suddenly dusk had come.Bears roared and dragons sang, echoing from rocky springs, shaking the deep woods and startling the layered peaks.Clouds darkened, about to rain; waters trembled and gave off mist.Lightning split and thunder crashed; hills and ridges broke apart.The stone gates of the cavern of heaven burst open with a roar.Azure darkness spread beyond all depth; sun and moon illuminated towers of gold and silver.Rainbows were their garments, wind their horses; lords of the clouds came down in throngs.Tigers played the zithers, phoenixes drew the carriages; immortals stood in ranks as thick as flax.Suddenly my soul trembled, my spirit shook; I started awake with a long sigh.There was only the pillow and bedding of my waking hour: all those clouds and mists were gone.The pleasures of the world are like this too; since ancient times all things flow east like water.I leave you now—when shall I return? Let my white deer roam among green cliffs; whenever I must go, I will ride it to famous mountains.How could I lower my brows and bend my back to serve the powerful, and keep my heart from opening in joy?

Li Bai — Parting at a Wine Shop in JinlingWind scatters willow flowers and fills the shop with fragrance; a girl of Wu draws wine and invites the guests to taste.Young men of Jinling have come to see me off; as I linger on the point of leaving, we each drain a cup.Ask the eastward-flowing water, if you will: which is longer, the river or the feeling of farewell?

Li Bai — Farewell to My Uncle Yun, Text Collator, at Xie Tiao's Tower in XuanzhouThe days that abandon me, yesterday's days, cannot be kept.The days that trouble my heart, today's days, are full of care.A great wind sends autumn geese ten thousand miles; before this sight we can drink deep in the high tower.Your writings have Penglai's splendor and the vigor of Jian'an; and within them, young Xie's lucid brilliance.Together we cherish free and soaring thoughts; we would climb the blue heavens and take the bright moon.Draw a blade to cut the water: it flows still more; raise a cup to drown sorrow: sorrow grows still deeper.When life in this world denies our wishes, tomorrow I will let down my hair and drift in a little boat.

Li Shangyin — Han Yu's InscriptionThe Yuanhe emperor was divine and martial: what men were Xuan and Xi beside him?He swore to wash away the shame of former rulers and sat in his palace receiving the homage of the four quarters.In Huai West rebels had thrived for fifty years: the wolf gave birth to the tiger, and the tiger to the bear.They held not mountains and rivers but level ground; their long spears could be wielded in broad daylight.The emperor found a sage minister named Du; the rebels hacked him but could not kill him, for spirits sheltered him.The chancellor's seal at his waist, he took supreme command; under dark and bitter winds flew the royal banners.Su, Wu, Gu and Tong became his claws and teeth; an official of the rites took up his brush and followed.The army's marshal was wise and brave; his hundred and forty thousand men were fierce as tigers and wildcats.They entered Cai, bound the rebel and presented him at the ancestral shrine: no one could dispute such merit, or measure the favor owed.The emperor said, “Du, yours is the greatest deed; your aide Yu should compose its record.”Yu bowed low and danced for joy: “I can carve the words in stone and metal.Since ancient times men have praised great pens; that skill has never depended on an official post.When duty calls, the worthy do not yield.” At this the emperor nodded again and again.Returning home, he purified himself and sat in his small chamber; what abundance flowed from the great brush he dipped!He corrected characters in the Canons of Yao and Shun, altered the poems “Clear Temple” and “Birth of the People.”His text was complete, written in a bold hand on paper; at dawn he bowed twice and laid it on the vermilion steps.His memorial said, “Your servant Yu risks death to offer these verses, recording the sacred ruler's achievement on a stele.”The stele rose thirty feet, its letters huge as bushel baskets; a spirit turtle bore it, carved dragons curled around it.Its phrases were strange and weighty, and few could understand; slanderers told the emperor that Yu served his own interests.A rope a hundred feet long pulled the stele down; coarse sand and great stones ground away its face.Yet his writing, like the primal breath of life, had already entered the hearts and minds of men.Works were inscribed on Tang's basin and Confucius's tripod; their vessels are gone, their words remain.Alas, a sacred emperor and a sage minister joined to shed their brilliant radiance and spread an age of peace.If the master's writing is not shown to later generations, how shall their achievement rival the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors?I wish to write it ten thousand times and recite it ten thousand times, till my lips foam and my right hand grows callused,To pass it down through seventy-three generations, a jade record for the sacrifice on the mountain, a foundation for the Hall of Light.

Li Qi — An Old ThemeA young man serves on a long campaign; from boyhood he has lived on the Yan frontier.He bets on victory beneath the horses' hooves, caring little for his seven-foot life.He kills men and none dares face him; his bristling beard spreads like a hedgehog's quills.Yellow clouds roll at the foot of the ridge, white snow flies; until he has repaid his lord's favor he cannot return.A young wife in Liaodong, only fifteen, is skilled with the pipa and knows songs and dances.Now she plays the Qiang flute's melody of leaving the frontier and makes all three armies weep like rain.

Li Qi — Seeing Chen Zhangfu OffIn the fourth month south winds ripen the barley; jujube flowers still cling, and paulownia shade grows long.Green hills seen at dawn appear again at dusk; the horse neighs at the gate, longing for home.How open and generous is Lord Chen! Dragon whiskers, tiger brows, a broad forehead too.He holds ten thousand books within him; he refuses to bow his head among weeds.At the eastern gate he buys wine for us; he makes light of all the world's affairs, as light as swan feathers.Drunk, he lies down unmindful of the sinking sun; at times he gazes vainly toward a high lone cloud.The great river's black waves touch the sky; boats are halted at the ferry and cannot cross.The traveler bound for Zheng has yet to reach home; the man of Luoyang can only sigh.I hear many old friends are in your native woods: you lost your post yesterday; what awaits you now?

Li Qi — Song of the ZitherOur host has wine to make us glad tonight; let the visitor from Guangling play the singing zither.Moonlight falls on the city wall and crows half take flight; frost chills ten thousand trees, and wind enters my clothes.Candles by the bronze brazier glow more brightly; first he plays “Clear Water,” then “The Lady of Chu.”One note stirs us all to stillness; no one speaks among the guests as stars begin to fade.I must go on a mission a thousand miles toward the clear Huai; may I tell you that my journey through clouded hills begins here?

Li Qi — Hearing Dong the Elder Play the Nomad Reed Flute, with Words for Chamberlain FangLong ago Cai's daughter created the sound of the nomad flute: each performance had eighteen movements.Nomads wept till their tears wet the border grass; Han envoys broke their hearts facing those who journeyed home.Ancient garrisons lay dim, their beacons cold; across the great waste white snow flew in the gloom.He first brushed the shang string, then the jue and yu; autumn leaves startled and rustled in all four directions.Master Dong, your art speaks to the spirits; even mountain demons steal near to listen.Slow phrases and quick alike answer your hand; departing and circling back, each is full of feeling.On empty mountains a hundred birds scatter and gather again; clouds ten thousand miles away darken and brighten.A young goose cries harshly in the night, lost from its flock; a nomad child, parted from its mother, cries till the sound breaks.The river stills its waves for him; even the birds stop singing.Home is distant for the Wusun tribes; amid Lhasa's dust their sorrow is born.A dark note changes pitch and suddenly pours forth, like a great wind through woods, like rain dropping on tiles.A spring bursts and sprays through the treetops; wild deer cry and run beneath the hall.Chang'an's city walls adjoin the eastern palace enclosure; Phoenix Pool faces the green-latticed gate.You, a man of great talent, are free of concern for rank or wealth; day and night I hope to see you come bearing your zither.

Li Qi — Song on Hearing An Wanshan Play the BiliBamboo cut from the southern mountains becomes the bili; this music came originally from Kucha.Passed into the Han lands, its melodies grew stranger; now a man of Liangzhou plays it for me.Neighbors who hear him sigh again and again; travelers far from home weep for their native land.People know how to hear it but not how to cherish it; it roams on its own through the gale.Withered mulberries and old cypresses whistle in the cold; nine young phoenixes chirp in a clamor.Dragons sing and tigers roar together; ten thousand sounds and a hundred springs share the autumn air.Suddenly he plays the “Yuyang Drumming”; yellow clouds grow bleak, the white sun darkens.The melody changes: now it is as though spring comes to willows, fresh blossoms at Shanglin filling our eyes.At year's end, in the high hall, bright candles are set in rows; with each cup of fine wine comes another tune.

Du Fu — Viewing General Cao's Painting of Horses at Recorder Wei Feng's HouseSince the dynasty's beginnings, of painters of saddled horses only the Prince of Jiangdu was called divine.The general has been renowned for thirty years; in this world we see a true marvelous steed again.Once he painted the former emperor's Night-Shining White; for ten days thunder seemed to fly around the Dragon Pool.From the imperial treasury came a dark red agate bowl; a palace consort passed the order, and attendants fetched it.The general bowed, danced, and went home with the bowl; fine silks and sheer brocades flew after him.Nobles and powerful families gained his paintings, and saw their screens and partitions begin to shine.Taizong once had his Curly-Maned Dun; more recently the Guo family had Lion Flower.These two horses appear in the new painting and make connoisseurs sigh for a long time.Each carried riders into battle and could face ten thousand foes; over the blank silk wind and sand spread far.The other seven are exceptional too, like smoke and snow moving through the cold high air.Frost-white hooves stamp among tall catalpas; grooms and stablemen stand arrayed in ranks.How splendid, the nine horses competing in their divine vigor, gazing about in lofty poise and deep calm.Who cherished the horses with such devotion? Wei Feng now, and before him Zhi Dun.I remember when the emperor visited Xinfeng Palace: his green plumes brushed the sky as he traveled east.Thirty thousand splendid horses leaped and pranced, their sinews and bones like those in this picture.Since that treasure was offered to the river god, he has no longer shot water dragons upon the river.Do you not see the pines and cypresses before Golden Millet Mound? The dragon steeds have all gone; birds cry into the wind.

Du Fu — A Song of Painting for General Cao BaGeneral, you descend from Cao Cao, the martial ruler of Wei;Today, reduced to common rank, you live like a farmer at Qingmen.The hero's struggle for dominion has ended,But his brilliance and grace live on in you.When you first studied calligraphy you followed Lady Wei,But regretted that you could not surpass Wang Xizhi.In painting you did not notice old age approaching;To you, wealth and honor were drifting clouds.In the Kaiyuan years you were often summoned to court,And favored with repeated visits to the South Wind Hall.The heroes' portraits at Lingyan had lost their colors;Under your brush their faces came to life again.Wise ministers wore the caps of noble counsel,Fierce generals carried great feathered arrows at their waists.The Dukes of Bao and E seemed to move their very hair,Their brave faces looked ready for battle still.The former emperor's heavenly horse was Jade Flower,But painters in crowds had all portrayed it differently.That day it was led beneath the crimson steps;Standing by the palace gates, it seemed to raise a great wind.By imperial decree you spread your white silk,And worked with sober care on its inner design.In an instant a true dragon came forth from the ninefold palace,Scouring away the common horses of all ages.Jade Flower now stood upon the emperor's couch;Horse on couch and horse in courtyard faced one another erect.The sovereign smiled as he ordered gold bestowed on you;Grooms and stablemasters alike stood wistful.Your pupil Han Gan had early mastered your methods;He too could paint a horse in all its varied shapes.But Han Gan painted only flesh and not the bones,Allowing the spirit of a magnificent steed to fade.There is something divine in your gift for painting;Whenever you met a fine man, you drew his likeness too.Now, wandering amid the wars,You repeatedly portray ordinary passersby.At the end of the road, the crowd looks down upon you;No man in the world is poor as you.Yet see how those of great renown since ancient timesHave suffered the frustrations that beset them all their days.

Du Fu — Sent to Remonstrance Official Han ZhuI am unhappy now and think of Yueyang; I long to take flight, but illness keeps me in bed.The lovely one lives beyond autumn waters, washing his feet in Dongting and gazing to the world's farthest reaches.Wild geese fly through darkness under clear sun and moon; green maple leaves turn red, and the sky rains frost.The lords of the Jade Capital gather by the Northern Dipper; some ride unicorns, screened by phoenixes.Lotus banners descend through mist; their shadows move, and reflected light shakes the Xiao and Xiang rivers.The lord of the starry palace is drunk on jade nectar; feathered immortals are few, and not beside him.I hear the one who was here yesterday was Red Pine himself—or perhaps Han's Zhang Liang.Once he helped the Liu clan secure Chang'an; his strategic genius is unchanged, but his heart grieves.How could I presume to judge a nation's rise and fall? He cannot stomach its corruption and feeds on maple fragrance.The ancient sages lamented being detained south of Zhou; the Old Man of the Southern Star ought to enjoy long life.Why does the lovely one stay across the autumn waters? How can we bring him to serve in the Jade Hall?

Du Fu — Song of the Ancient CypressBefore Zhuge Liang's temple stands an ancient cypress, its boughs like green bronze, its roots like stone.Rain streams down its frosty bark, forty arm spans round; its deep-blue foliage reaches two thousand feet into the sky.Clouds come and its breath joins distant Wu Gorge; when the moon rises its cold extends to the white Snow Mountains.The minister and his sovereign met the moment of their age; the tree is still cherished for their sake.I remember my recent walk east of Brocade Pavilion, where the First Lord and his minister share a sacred shrine.Great branches rise above the ancient plain; painted forms gleam softly from the empty doors and windows.Although it stands rooted in good ground, solitary at that height it meets fierce winds.The gods themselves support it; its uprightness is the work of creation.Should a great hall begin to fall and need a beam, ten thousand oxen would turn back at its mountain weight.Even without displaying its patterns, it astonishes the world; if it were cut down, who could carry it away?Its bitter heart cannot keep out ants; fragrant leaves have long sheltered phoenixes.Let devoted men and hidden scholars not complain: great timber has always been hard to use.

Du Fu — Song of the Sword Dance by a Pupil of Lady Gongsun, with PrefaceLong ago there was a beauty, Lady Gongsun; a single sword dance stirred the four quarters.Spectators stood in mountains, their faces altered; heaven and earth rose and fell with her for hours.She blazed like Yi shooting down the nine suns, soared like the heavenly lords riding dragons.She struck like thunder releasing its anger, and ended like rivers and seas holding their blue light still.Her red lips and jeweled sleeves have fallen silent; in later years a pupil inherited her fragrant art.The beauty of Linying, here in Baidi, dances it wondrously with soaring spirit.As I questioned her and heard her answers, memory of the times and their events deepened my grief.The former emperor had eight thousand serving women; in the sword dance, Lady Gongsun stood first.Fifty years have turned like the palm of a hand; war's swirling dust has darkened the royal house.The Pear Garden performers have scattered like smoke; a trace of their dancers' grace shines in the cold sun.South of Golden Millet Mound the trees have grown thick; by Qutang's stone walls the grass blows bleakly.The quick pipes at the tortoiseshell feast play their last notes; when joy has gone, sorrow comes, and the moon rises east.I am an old man and do not know where to go; my feet blister on barren mountains, my distress and illness deepen.

Meng Haoran — Song of Returning to Deer Gate at NightThe temple bell sounds in the hills, and day has grown dark; at Fish Weir Ferry, people clamor to cross.They follow the sandy bank toward riverside villages; I too take a boat back to Deer Gate.The Deer Gate moon shines and opens the misty trees; suddenly I come to Lord Pang's secluded dwelling.Its rocky gate and pine path are quiet forever; only a man of solitude comes and goes there alone.

Liu Zongyuan — The FishermanAt night an old fisherman sleeps beside the western cliff; at dawn he draws clear Xiang water and burns Chu bamboo.The mist disperses, the sun rises, but the man has vanished; one creak of his oar, and hills and waters turn green.I look back as his boat runs down the midstream toward the horizon; above the cliffs idle clouds pursue one another.

Chen Zi'ang — Song of Climbing Youzhou TerraceBefore me I see no men of old; behind me no men yet to come.I think of heaven and earth stretching forever, and alone, heartbroken, my tears fall.

Han Yu — Mountain RocksMountain stones jut roughly; the path is faint. At dusk I reach the temple, where bats are flying. I enter the hall and sit on its steps, the recent rain abundant; banana leaves spread wide, gardenias are plump. A monk tells me the Buddha painting on the old wall is fine, and brings a flame to show me its rare details. He spreads a bed and shakes out a mat and serves soup and rice; coarse and meager though they are, they satisfy my hunger. Deep in the night I lie still; insects have gone silent, and a clear moon climbs the ridge and lights the door. At dawn I set out alone with no path to follow, climbing and descending till I have crossed the furthest mists. The hills glow red, the brooks green in bewildering profusion; sometimes I see pines and oaks ten arm spans round. I wade the current barefoot, treading stones in the brook; the water rushes and the wind blows my clothes. Such a life is joy enough: why submit to the bridle of another's control? Ah, you few friends of mine, how can we return here and stay until we grow old?

Han Yu — To Zhang, Judicial Officer, on the Night of the Fifteenth of the Eighth MonthThin clouds roll away on every side; the sky is free of haze, and a clear breeze sends ripples across the moon. The sands are level, the water still, sound and shadow gone; I offer you a cup, and ask you to sing. Your voice is pained, your words bitter; before you finish, tears fall like rain. Dongting stretches to heaven, the Nine Doubts rise high; river dragons surface and dive, gibbons and flying squirrels wail. After escaping death nine times in ten, we reached our official posts and lived hidden and silent, like fugitives. We feared snakes when we rose from bed and poison in our food; sea mists damply steamed the foul air. Yesterday they beat the great drums before the prefectural office: the new emperor had succeeded the sage, summoning worthies like Kui and Gao. The pardon traveled ten thousand miles in a day, sparing even those sentenced to death. The demoted were recalled, the exiled returned, their stains washed away to join the pure court ranks. But the prefectural officials forwarded our names and the envoys held them back; by ill luck we gained only a transfer to the wildlands of Jing. Our lowly judicial posts are hardly worth mentioning; we still cannot escape beatings amid the dust. Many of our companions have already set out for home, but the road to heaven is dark and steep, beyond our climb. Stop your song and listen to mine: tonight my song will sound quite different from yours. No night this year has a brighter moon; life rests with fate, not with anyone else. What good is this bright moon if we leave our wine undrunk?

Han Yu — Visiting the Temple of Mount Heng, Spending the Night at the Mountain Monastery, and Writing on Its Gate TowerIn rank, the sacrifices to all Five Peaks are those due the three highest ministers; they stand guard around the four quarters, with Mount Song in the center. The southern fire lands are wild and thick with spirits; heaven has given the mountain god authority to rule them alone. He breathes out cloud and mist that conceal half the mountain; who can reach its summit, even if it stands there? I arrived in the season of autumn rain; all was murky shadow, without a clear wind. Silently I prayed in my heart and seemed to win an answer: was it my uprightness that moved the spirit? In a moment the sky swept clear and the peaks appeared; looking up, I saw them rise abruptly into blue space. Purple Canopy stretches toward Heavenly Pillar; Stone Granary leaps up by the piled mass of Zhurong. Awestruck and shaking, I dismounted and bowed, then followed a path through pines and cypresses to the sacred shrine. White walls and red columns shone; paintings of spirits filled it with greens and reds. Stooping as I climbed the steps, I offered dried meat and wine, hoping these slight gifts would show what lay in my heart. The old temple keeper understood the god's intentions; eyes wide, he watched attentively and bent low. He put divining blocks in my hands and guided my cast, saying the result was the most auspicious, beyond any other. Banished to wild southern lands, I count myself lucky to be alive; food and clothes are just enough, and I would gladly spend my life there. I have long ceased hoping to become a lord, a king, a minister, a general; even if the god wished to bless me, what could he do? At night I took shelter at a Buddhist temple and climbed a high tower; stars and moon shone fitfully through cloudy gloom. Gibbons called and bells sounded; before I knew it, dawn came, and a brilliant cold sun rose in the east.

Han Yu — Song of the Stone DrumsYoung Zhang held in his hands a copy of the stone-drum inscriptions and urged me to make a song of them. Shaoling has no successor, the Banished Immortal is dead; with such slight talent, what can I do for the stone drums? The Zhou order declined, and all four seas seethed; King Xuan rose in anger and wielded his heavenly spear. He opened wide the Hall of Light and received the homage of the court; the lords' swords and pendants rang against one another. He held a grand hunt at Qiyang, ranging his mighty warriors; beasts from ten thousand miles were caught in the net. To proclaim his achievement for ten thousand generations, they hewed stone into drums, splitting the rugged cliffs. His attendant ministers were all masters of their arts; they were selected to compose and carve the words upon the mountainside. Rain drenched them, sun burned them, wild fires scorched them; spirits labored to stand guard over them. Where did you find a paper copy so exact, with every hair's breadth intact? Its language is solemn, its meaning close-woven and hard to fathom; the script resembles neither clerical hand nor tadpole characters. After so many years, how could some strokes not be missing? Their shapes are like a sharp sword cutting living dragons and turtles apart. Phoenixes and fabulous birds take wing as immortals descend; coral and emerald trees entwine their branches. Golden cords and iron chains form strong knots; an ancient cauldron leaps into water and a dragon darts like a shuttle. Pedants compiling the Book of Songs did not include them; the two Ya sections were too narrow to make them room. Confucius never traveled west into Qin: he picked out the stars but left the sun and moon behind. Alas, I love antiquity but was born too late; facing these words, tears stream down both my cheeks. I remember when I was first summoned as a scholar; it was the year the era name changed to Yuanhe. An old friend was in military service west of the capital; I had him calculate what it would take to dig out their hollows. I washed my cap, bathed, and appealed to the director of studies: how many such treasures remain in the world? Wrapped in felt and mats, they could come here at once: ten drums would need only a few camels. Offer them in the ancestral temple beside the ancient Ding of Gao, and their glory would surpass it a hundredfold. If imperial grace allowed them to rest in the academy, the students could discuss them and learn. Crowds still gather to see the stone classics at Hongdu; before our eyes the whole realm would hasten here. Scrape off the moss and peel away the lichen to show their ridges and edges; set them securely, straight and level. Build a great hall with deep eaves to shelter them, and hope they may endure the long years unharmed. But high officials at court, grown old at their work, will they be moved? They only hedge and yield. Herd boys strike fire from the stones, oxen rub their horns there: who will raise a hand to caress them now? Day by day and month by month they wear away and sink into oblivion; for six years I have turned westward and sung in vain. Wang Xizhi's vulgar script relies on pretty forms, yet a few sheets of his writing could win white geese. Eight dynasties of war have passed since Zhou: no one gathered the drums and set them right—what can we do? These days peace prevails; with no affairs to trouble it, the court entrusts authority to learning and honors Confucius and Mencius. How can I lay this case before it? If only I could borrow the eloquence of a rushing river! Here my song of the stone drums ends; alas, I fear my hope will come to nothing.

Yuan Jie — Drinking Song on Stone Fish Lake, with PrefaceStone Fish Lake looks like Dongting Lake; summer waters rise almost to the green slopes of Junshan.Mountains make our wine cups, water makes the pool; drinkers sit scattered across the islands.For days a strong wind has raised great waves, but it cannot stop people bringing wine by boat.I sit on Ba Hill holding a long ladle, pouring wine for everyone to drive away their worries.

Bai Juyi — Song of Lasting SorrowThe emperor of Han loved beauty and sought a woman who could captivate a whole country; for years on the throne, he could not find her.A daughter of the Yang family had just grown up; sheltered deep inside her rooms, she was unknown to others.A beauty like hers could not be hidden away, and one day she was chosen to stand beside the ruler.One backward glance and smile brought countless charms; every other woman in the palace seemed plain.In the chill of spring, he let her bathe in the pool at Huaqing; warm spring water flowed over her smooth skin.Attendants helped her up, too lovely and weak to stand: this was when she first received his favor.Her hair was like clouds, her face like a flower, with gold ornaments that swung as she walked; they passed spring nights in the warmth of the lotus curtains.The spring nights seemed too short, and the sun was high before they rose; from then on the ruler did not hold court early in the morning.She attended his feasts and shared his pleasures without a moment free; all spring she accompanied him on outings, and every night she was with him.There were three thousand beautiful women in his palace, but all the affection meant for three thousand fell on her alone.She dressed in the golden rooms to wait on him at night; after feasts in jade halls, she was drunk with him and the spring air.Her brothers and sisters all received titles and lands, raising the standing of the whole family.So parents throughout the world came to value daughters more than sons.High on Mount Li the palace reached into blue clouds; heavenly music drifted on the wind and could be heard everywhere.Soft songs and slow dances held the music of strings and flutes; all day the emperor could not see enough of them.Then war drums sounded from Yuyang and shook the earth, interrupting the song of Rainbow Skirts and Feathered Coats.Dust and smoke rose around the many palace gates; a thousand carriages and ten thousand horsemen fled southwest.The imperial green banners swayed as the procession stopped and started; they had gone more than a hundred miles west of the capital gate.His six armies refused to go on, and he could do nothing; his beautiful consort died before his horse.Her flower ornaments fell to the ground, and no one picked up the green hairpin, gold bird or jade hair ornament.The emperor covered his face, unable to save her; looking back, he shed tears mixed with blood.Yellow dust spread under a bleak wind; the plank road through the clouds twisted up to Sword Gate.Few people traveled below Mount Emei; the banners lost their color, and the sun gave little light.The rivers of Shu were blue and its mountains green, but the ruler longed for her every morning and evening.At his temporary palace, the moon was painful to see; at night rain sounded on bells and broke his heart.When the world changed and the imperial carriage came back, he stopped here, unable to move on.In the earth beneath Mawei Slope he could not see her face, only the place where she had died.Ruler and ministers looked at each other, their clothes wet with tears; facing east toward the capital, they let their horses carry them home.When he returned, the ponds and gardens were just as before, with lotuses on Taiye Lake and willows at Weiyang Palace.The lotuses looked like her face, the willows like her eyebrows; how could he look at them without crying?Spring winds brought nights of peach and plum blossoms; autumn rain brought falling plane-tree leaves.Autumn weeds filled the western palace and southern garden; red leaves covered the steps and no one swept them away.The young performers of the Pear Garden had grown white-haired; even the older palace attendants had gray hair now.Fireflies flew through the evening hall while he thought of her in silence; he trimmed the solitary lamp but could not sleep.Bells and drums slowly marked the beginning of another long night; the bright Milky Way told him dawn was near.Frost lay thick on the cold tiles patterned with mandarin ducks; who would share the cold kingfisher quilt with him?For years life and death had separated them, and her spirit had never come to him in a dream.A Daoist from Linqiong visiting the capital could use his powers of concentration to summon spirits.Moved by the ruler's constant yearning, he made the adept search carefully for her.He rushed through the sky on the wind like lightning, searching everywhere above the heavens and below the earth.He went to the farthest blue skies and the deepest world of the dead; in neither vast place could she be found.Then he heard of an immortal mountain out at sea, floating dimly in empty space.Fine towers rose among five-colored clouds, and many graceful immortals lived there.Among them was one called Taizhen, with skin like snow and the face of a flower; she seemed to be the one.At the western door of the golden towers he knocked at a jade gate and asked Xiaoyu to tell Shuangcheng.Hearing that a messenger from the Han emperor had come, she woke with a start behind her flowered curtains.She caught up her clothes, pushed away the pillow, got up and paced about; beaded curtains and silver screens opened one after another.Her cloudlike hair was askew from sleep; she came out with her flower crown out of place.The wind lifted her immortal sleeves, as if she were still dancing Rainbow Skirts and Feathered Coats.Her jade-like face looked lonely, with tears running down it like spring rain on a pear blossom.Looking toward him tenderly, she thanked the emperor: since parting, they could neither see nor hear each other.Love had ended in the hall at Zhaoyang, while days and months went on and on in the palace at Penglai.She turned to look down at the human world; she saw no Chang'an, only dust and mist.She could send back only old belongings to show her deep love: a jeweled box and gold hairpin.She kept one half of the hairpin and one side of the box; she split the gold pin and divided the ornament on the box.“If our hearts stay as firm as this gold and these jewels, we will meet again in heaven or on earth.”As they parted, she carefully sent another message, containing a vow known only to the two of them.“On the seventh night of the seventh month, in the Palace of Long Life, when no one was there, we spoke in private at midnight.We wished to be two birds flying wing to wing in the sky, or two trees growing together on earth.”Even the long-lasting heavens and earth will one day end; this sorrow continues without end.

Bai Juyi — Song of the Pipa, with PrefaceIn the tenth year of Yuanhe I was demoted to the post of marshal of Jiujiang. In the autumn of the next year, as I saw a guest off at the mouth of the Pen River, I heard someone playing a pipa at night in a boat. It had the clear sound of music from the capital. I asked who the player was. She had been a singing girl in Chang'an, had studied the pipa with the masters Mu and Cao, and, when she grew older and lost her beauty, had married a merchant. I ordered wine and asked her to play several pieces freely. When she finished, she fell silent and sad. She told us of the pleasures of her youth and of how she had since grown worn down, drifting among the rivers and lakes. I had lived quietly and without complaint during the two years since I was sent out of the capital. Her story made me feel my exile for the first time that night. So I wrote a song in long lines for her, six hundred and sixteen characters in all, and called it “Song of the Pipa.”At night by the Xunyang River I saw a guest off; maple leaves and reed flowers rustled in the autumn air.I got off my horse while the guest boarded the boat; we raised wine to drink, but there were no strings or flutes.We were too sad to enjoy our drink and were about to part; at our farewell the broad river held the moon.Suddenly we heard a pipa on the water; I forgot to go home, and the guest did not leave.Following the sound, we quietly asked who played; the pipa stopped, and the player was slow to answer.We brought our boats close and invited her to meet us; we brought more wine, turned up the lamps and began the feast again.Only after we called again and again did she come out, still holding her pipa to hide half her face.She turned the pegs and plucked the strings a few times; before the tune began, we heard feeling in it.Each string sounded low and restrained, each note full of thought, as though she were telling us of a life that had not gone well.She looked down and played without pause, pouring out all the things she held in her heart.She touched and rolled the strings, brushed and plucked them; first she played Rainbow Skirts, then Green Waist.The thick strings sounded loudly like fast rain; the thin strings whispered like private talk.Loud and soft notes mixed together like great and small pearls falling on a jade plate.An oriole's song flowed under the flowers; a hidden spring struggled to run beneath ice.The cold, blocked spring slowed, and the strings seemed to stop; for a moment the sound fell silent.A deep sorrow and hidden regret arose; just then the silence expressed more than sound.Then it was like a silver jar breaking and water pouring out, like armed horsemen charging as weapons clashed.At the end she drew the plectrum across the strings at the center; all four strings sounded as one, like silk tearing.There was no sound from the boats to east or west; only the white autumn moon shone in the river's center.She paused, put the plectrum among the strings, adjusted her clothes and rose with a serious face.She said she had once been a girl in the capital and lived below Toad Hill.She mastered the pipa at thirteen and was enrolled in the first division of the music school.When she finished playing, even masters yielded to her; when she made herself up, other performers envied her.Young men from the Five Tombs competed to give her gifts of silk; for one song she received countless rolls of red gauze.She broke a jeweled comb beating time and spilled wine over her red silk skirt.Year followed year with laughter, as she spent autumn moons and spring winds without a thought.Her younger brother joined the army, her guardian died; as days passed, her beauty faded.Horses and carriages stopped coming to her door; growing older, she married a merchant.Merchants care about profit more than parting; last month he went to Fuliang to buy tea.Since he left, she has guarded the empty boat at the river mouth; moonlight surrounds it, and the river water is cold.Late at night she suddenly dreams of her youth; waking in tears, she sees makeup running red down her cheeks.Hearing her pipa I had already sighed; hearing her story, I sighed even more.“We are both people brought low far from home; why should we need to have known each other to meet?”Since I left the imperial capital last year, I have lived in exile, often ill, in Xunyang.The place is remote, without music; for a whole year I had not heard strings or flutes.I live in the damp low ground beside the Pen River, with yellow reeds and bitter bamboo around the house.What do I hear there morning and evening? Cuckoos crying as if bleeding and monkeys calling sadly.On spring mornings with flowers, or autumn nights with moonlight, I often take wine and drink by myself.There are mountain songs and village flutes, but their harsh, broken sound is hard to listen to.Tonight your pipa seemed to speak; it was like hearing heavenly music, and my ears felt clear again.Please sit down and play one more piece; for you I will write this Song of the Pipa.Moved by my words, she stood for a long time, then sat again and tightened her strings, playing faster.The sad music was unlike what she had played before; everyone listening wept again.Who cried the most among us? The marshal of Jiujiang, with his blue robe soaked through.

Cen Shen — Song of the Galloping Horse River, Seeing Commander Feng Off on His Western CampaignDon't you see the Galloping Horse River beside the sea of snow, with yellow sand stretching up to the sky?At Luntai the wind roars at night in the ninth month; stones as large as buckets are blown all over the riverbed.The grass has turned yellow and the Xiongnu horses are well fed; west of the Golden Mountains we see dust rise.The Han general marches west; he does not take off his gold armor at night.At midnight the soldiers march, their spears striking each other; the wind cuts their faces like a knife.Snow gathers on the horses' coats and their sweat gives off steam; their patterned hair quickly freezes over.In the tent, water for ink freezes as the dispatch is written; enemy riders who hear of this must be terrified.Surely they won't dare fight at close quarters; I wait at Jushi's western gate for news of victory.

Cen Shen — Song of Luntai, Seeing Commander Feng Off on His Western CampaignAt night horns sound above Luntai's wall; north of the city the enemy's star sinks.An urgent military letter passed Quli last night: the northern chieftain is already west of the Golden Mountains.Looking west from the watchtower, I see black dust; Han troops are massed north of Luntai.The chief general carries his banner west to war; at dawn flutes play as the great army marches.Drums beat all around like the snow sea surging; the three armies shout and shake the Yin Mountains.The enemy's defenses gather like clouds; bones on the battlefield are tangled in grass roots.Strong wind blows broad snowflakes over Sword River; at the sandy pass, frozen stones break horses' hooves.Serving the ruler, our deputy minister willingly bears hardship and vows to end the fighting on the border.Who has not read the histories of earlier days? Today we will see greater achievement than theirs.

Cen Shen — Song of White Snow, Seeing Official Wu Off to the CapitalThe north wind sweeps the ground and breaks the dry white grass; in these northern lands snow falls as early as the eighth month.Suddenly it looks as if spring wind came overnight and opened pear blossoms on a thousand trees.Snow blows past beaded curtains and wets silk screens; fox fur cannot keep us warm, and the brocade quilt is too thin.The general cannot draw his horn bow; the governor finds his iron armor too cold to put on.Across the wide desert ice stretches in ridges a hundred feet high; dark, sad clouds gather over ten thousand miles.At the central camp, we serve wine to the guest going home, with northern fiddles, pipas and Qiang flutes.Snow keeps falling on the camp gate at dusk; the wind pulls at the red flag, but it is frozen and cannot move.I see you off at Luntai's east gate; snow covers the road through the Tianshan Mountains as you go.The mountain path turns and you disappear; only your horse's tracks remain in the snow.

Li Bai — Song of Mount Lu, to Censor Lu XuzhouI am the madman of Chu, who sang a phoenix song to laugh at Confucius.With a green jade staff in my hand, I left Yellow Crane Tower in the morning.I don't mind traveling far in search of immortals among the five great mountains; all my life I've loved visiting famous mountains.Mount Lu rises beautifully beside the Southern Dipper; nine folds spread like a screen of cloud-brocade, casting dark blue reflections on the clear lake.Two long peaks stand before a golden gate; the Milky Way seems to hang upside down over three stone bridges.The waterfall of Incense Burner Peak is visible in the distance; cliffs bend and ridges pile up into the blue sky.Green shadows and red clouds catch the morning sun; no bird can fly up to the distant sky over Wu.Climbing high, I see the magnificent world: the great river runs far away without returning.Yellow clouds stretch for ten thousand miles in the shifting wind; white waves surge along nine streams like snowy mountains.I love singing of Mount Lu; the mountain itself inspires me.At ease I gaze into the stone mirror and clear my thoughts; green moss covers the path where Lord Xie once walked.May I take the elixir early and leave worldly concerns behind; after three stages of zither meditation, I will begin to learn the Way.Far away I see immortals in colored clouds, holding lotus flowers as they greet the Jade Capital.I had arranged to meet Hanman beyond the nine heavens; I hope to join Lu Ao on a journey through the pure sky.

Li Bai — A Song on My Dream Journey to Mount Tianmu, Written at PartingTravelers by sea talk of Yingzhou, but its misty waves make it hard to find.People of Yue speak of Mount Tianmu; through clouds and sunset colors, one can sometimes see it.Mount Tianmu reaches across the sky, rising higher than the five great mountains and hiding Red City.Even Tiantai, forty-eight thousand feet tall, seems to lean southeast and bow before it.Thinking of it, I dreamed of the land of Wu and Yue and flew across Mirror Lake by moonlight in one night.The moon on the lake lit up my shadow and carried me to Shan Creek.The place where Lord Xie once stayed is still there; clear water ripples and monkeys call.Wearing the wooden shoes of Lord Xie, I climbed a stairway into the clouds.Halfway up the cliff I saw the sun over the sea and heard the heavenly rooster high in the air.I wound past a thousand cliffs, unable to find a fixed path; entranced by flowers and leaning on rocks, I suddenly found it was dusk.Bears roared and dragons sang; the mountain springs rumbled, making the deep woods tremble and the high peaks shake.The clouds darkened and rain was near; mist rose from the gently rippling water.Lightning flashed and thunder struck, and hills and mountains split apart.The stone doors of a cavern in the sky opened with a roar.Beyond lay a vast blue space with no visible end; sun and moon lit up towers of gold and silver.Wearing rainbows as clothes and riding the wind as horses, the lords of the clouds came down in crowds.Tigers played harps and phoenixes guided carriages; immortals stood in lines as numerous as reeds.Suddenly my heart shook and my spirit stirred; I woke in fright and sighed for a long time.All I found on waking was my pillow and bedding; the clouds and colors I had seen were gone.The pleasures of the world are like this too; everything since ancient times has flowed east like water.When I leave you, when will I come back? For now I'll let my white deer graze among green cliffs and ride it to famous mountains when I wish.How could I lower my brows and bend my back to serve the powerful, so that I could no longer be happy?

Li Bai — Parting at a Tavern in JinlingWind blows willow fluff through the tavern, filling it with fragrance; a woman of Wu pours wine and calls guests to try it.The young men of Jinling come to see me off; as I try to leave, each one drinks a whole cup.Ask the river flowing east: is its length greater or less than my sadness at parting?

Li Bai — Seeing My Uncle Yun, the Editor, Off at Xie Tiao's Tower in XuanzhouThe day that left me yesterday cannot be held back.The day that troubles my mind today is filled with worry.A strong wind carries autumn geese ten thousand miles; seeing them, we can drink deeply in the high tower.Your writing has the force of Penglai's ancient texts and the poets of Jian'an; my lines, like Xie Tiao's, are clear and lively.Both of us feel our spirits soaring and our thoughts rising; we want to climb into the sky and take hold of the bright moon.If I draw a sword to cut the water, it keeps on flowing; if I raise a cup to ease my sorrow, I feel even sadder.When life in this world doesn't go as I wish, tomorrow I'll let my hair loose and sail a little boat.

Li Shangyin — The Stone Inscription by Han YuThe emperor of the Yuanhe era was mighty and almost godlike; who were the rulers Xuanyuan and Fuxi beside him?He vowed to avenge the shame of earlier emperors; seated in the palace hall, he received homage from foreign peoples.Rebels had ruled western Huai for fifty years; one wolf lord gave way to another fierce beast.They occupied plains rather than mountain strongholds and brandished long spears and sharp lances by daylight.The emperor found a great minister named Pei Du; when rebels hacked at him without killing him, the spirits protected him.Wearing the minister's seal at his waist, he took command of the armies; a dark wind dimmed the ruler's banners.Li Su, Han Wu, Li Daogu and Li Wentong served as his fighting men; Han Yu, an official of the rites, followed with a pen.The army's chief of staff was wise and brave; a hundred and forty thousand soldiers were fierce as tigers.They entered Cai, bound the rebel and presented him at the ancestral temple; no one could match their merit, and the rewards were beyond counting.The emperor said, “Pei Du, your merit is foremost. Your aide Han Yu should write about it.”Han Yu bowed low and danced for joy: “I can carve the record in stone.”“People have always called this great writing; the work need not belong to an official with a particular post.No one should hold back from doing what is right.” At his words the emperor nodded several times.After leaving court, Han Yu fasted and sat in a little chamber, wetting his great brush generously with ink.He revised words worthy of the records of Yao and Shun and changed verses worthy of the temple hymns.He completed the unusual work and wrote it out; at dawn he bowed twice and spread it on the red court steps.His memorial read, “Your servant Yu risks his life to submit a poem on your divine achievement, to be carved on a stone.”The stone was thirty feet high and its characters as large as a ladle, supported by a sacred tortoise and wound around with carved dragons.Its words were strange and forceful, and few understood them; slanderers told the emperor it gave undue praise to Han Yu's patron.A hundred-foot rope dragged the stone down; rough sand and great stones were used to rub away its writing.But Han Yu's words were like the breath of the world, already absorbed into people's hearts and minds.The ancient rulers' vessels once carried inscriptions; their objects are gone but their words remain.How splendidly that emperor and minister together spread their glorious peace!If Han Yu's work is not shown to later generations, how can their deeds compare with the ancient rulers'?I would like to write it out ten thousand times and recite it ten thousand times until my mouth foams and my right hand grows callused.Pass it down for seventy-three generations and use it to support the rites on sacred mountains and the temple of the emperor.

Li Qi — An Old ThemeA young man goes on long campaigns; since boyhood he has lived around You and Yan.He gambles for victory on horseback; he has always valued his life lightly.After he kills a man, no one dares face him; his beard bristles like a hedgehog.Beneath yellow clouds by the Long Mountains, white snow flies; until he repays his ruler, he cannot return home.A young wife in Liaodong, only fifteen, knows how to play the pipa, sing and dance.Now she plays a frontier song on the Qiang flute, making all our soldiers cry like rain.

Li Qi — Seeing Chen Zhangfu OffIn the southern wind of the fourth month the barley turns yellow; jujube flowers have not yet fallen, and the paulownia gives long shade.Leaving green mountains in the morning, I see them again at dusk; my horse neighs as I leave home and think of my native place.Master Chen has a remarkably open heart; he has a curly beard, tiger-like eyebrows and a broad forehead.His mind holds ten thousand books, and he refuses to bow his head even when living in the wilderness.At the east gate he buys wine for us; he regards all the world's troubles as light as goose down.He lies drunk, unaware of the sunset, and sometimes stares up at a solitary cloud.The long river's waves are dark up to the sky; boats stop at the ferry and cannot cross.The traveler from Zheng has not reached home; the one bound for Luoyang sighs in vain.I hear that many old friends are in your old woods; now that you left office yesterday, what will you do?

Li Qi — Song of the ZitherOur host has wine to make us happy tonight; he asks a guest from Guangling to play the zither.The moon lights the city wall as crows fly off; frost chills the many trees and wind enters our clothes.Candles shine brighter beside the bronze stove; first he plays “Clear Water,” then “The Lady of Chu.”One note moves us, and everything grows quiet; no one speaks, and the stars begin to fade.I have been sent more than a thousand miles along the clear Huai; let me say that my life among clouds and mountains begins here.

Li Qi — Listening to Dong the Elder Play “The Northern Reed,” and a Message to Official FangLong ago Lady Cai composed the tune of the northern reed pipe, played in eighteen sections.Northern people shed tears that wet frontier grass; the Han envoy's heart broke before those returning home.The old garrison stood dark green and its beacons were cold; the great wilderness was deep with flying white snow.He brushed the strings for the shang note, then played the jue and yu notes; falling autumn leaves rustled on every side.Master Dong, your skill seems supernatural; spirits from the deep mountains come to listen secretly.Slow notes and fast ones answer your hands; the melody departs and turns back as if it had feelings.A hundred birds scatter and gather on the empty mountain; clouds across ten thousand miles make the sky dark and then clear.A young goose lost from its flock cries out at night; a northern child cries faintly for his mother.The river stills its waves for him, and the birds stop singing too.For the people of Wusun, home is far away; dust in the lands of Lhasa stirs sorrow and resentment.His low melody suddenly changes and sweeps on like a strong wind through trees and rain falling on roof tiles.Springs burst and rush into the treetops; wild deer call as they run beneath the hall.Chang'an stretches to the eastern palace wall; the Phoenix Pool stands by the decorated green gate.You, a gifted man above fame and wealth, wait every morning and evening for him to come with his zither.

Li Qi — Song on Hearing An Wanshan Play the Reed PipeBamboo was cut on the southern mountains to make the reed pipe; its music first came from Kucha.It reached the Han lands, where its tunes grew more unusual; a man from Liangzhou plays it for me.Neighbors who hear it often sigh; travelers far from home shed tears of longing.People know how to hear but not how to value it; it wanders alone in the strong wind.It sounds like cold wind through withered mulberry and old cypress, or nine young phoenixes calling all at once.Dragon cries and tiger roars break out together, with sounds of a hundred springs amid autumn.Suddenly he plays the “Yuyang” war song; yellow clouds spread, and the sun grows dark.Then the melody changes, like hearing “Willows in Spring”; the flowers of the upper grove seem newly bright before my eyes.On a festival night, lamps line the great hall; with every cup of good wine there is another tune.

Du Fu — Looking at General Cao's Painting of Horses at Clerk Wei Feng's HouseSince the founding of our dynasty, Prince Jiangdu alone was praised for his wonderful paintings of horses.General Cao has been famous for thirty years, and now people have seen another true heavenly horse.Once he painted the former emperor's horse, Shining White by Night; for ten days the picture caused a commotion at Dragon Pool.From the palace came a deep-red agate bowl; a lady of the court brought the order and asked for the painting.The bowl was given to the general, who bowed and danced before returning home; fine white silks followed him in heaps.Only after powerful nobles obtained his paintings did their screens and walls begin to shine.Long ago Emperor Taizong had Curly-Haired Brown; more recently the Guo family had Lion-Flower.These two horses appear in this new painting, again making those who know horses sigh with wonder.Both fought in battle and could each face ten thousand enemies; spread on white silk, they seem to stir wind and sand.The other seven are exceptional too, looking from afar like mist and snow moving in the cold sky.Their frost-colored hooves trample among tall catalpa trees; their grooms and stablemen stand together in rows.All nine magnificent horses seem to compete, looking about with noble and steady bearing.Who loved them enough to preserve this work? Wei Feng today, as the monk Zhidun did before him.I remember when the emperor traveled to Xinfeng Palace, with his green banners brushing the sky as he went east.Thirty thousand fine, spirited horses were with him, all with the same muscles and bones as these painted ones.Since the precious horses were presented to the river god, no one has hunted river monsters with arrows in the water.Don't you see, among the pines and cypresses before Golden Millet Mound, the heavenly horses are gone and birds cry in the wind?

Du Fu — Song on Painting, for General Cao BaGeneral, you are descended from Cao Cao of Wei;Today you live as a commoner in the city's outskirts.The heroes' rule of their own lands has ended,But their artistic talent and grace live on in you.At first you studied the calligraphy of Lady Wei,And regretted not surpassing Wang Xizhi.Then you painted, unaware of approaching old age;Wealth and rank meant no more to you than passing clouds.During the Kaiyuan years, you were often called to court;Favored by the ruler, you often went up to the Southern Fragrance Hall.The portraits of honored ministers at Lingyan had lost their color;Your brush gave them fresh faces.A fine minister wore a cap of office on his head;A fierce general had large feathered arrows at his waist.The hair of Lord Bao and Lord E seemed to stir;Their bold figures looked ready for battle again.The former emperor owned a fine horse, Jade-Flower Dapple;Countless painters had tried to capture it and failed.One day it was led below the red palace steps;Standing tall by the gates, it seemed to raise a strong wind.The emperor ordered you to spread your white silk and paint it;You worked patiently, forming the picture in your mind.Soon a true dragon seemed to come out of the palace,Sweeping away every ordinary horse ever painted.Jade-Flower seemed to stand on the imperial couch,Looking straight at its living counterpart in the courtyard.The emperor smiled and ordered gold given to you;The stablemen and horsekeepers all felt disappointed.Your student Han Gan learned from you earlyAnd could paint horses in all their different shapes.But Han Gan painted only flesh, not bones,And let the spirits of his fine horses fade away.Your paintings are so good they seem almost divine;Whenever you met a fine person, you painted that person's likeness too.Now in these years of war you wander from place to placeAnd often paint portraits of ordinary travelers.When you reach a dead end, common people look down on you;No one in the world is as poor as you.But see how often those with great names in the pastHave struggled through all their days.

Du Fu — To Court Adviser Han ZhuI am unhappy now and think of Yueyang; I wish I could fly there, but I lie sick in bed.My fine friend is across the autumn waters, washing his feet in Dongting Lake and looking toward the whole world.A wild goose flies high under the bright sun and moon; green maple leaves turn red as frost falls from the sky.At the jade capital the gods assemble around the Big Dipper, some riding qilin and some hidden by phoenixes.Lotus banners descend through mist; their reflections move in reverse among the Xiao and Xiang waters.The lord of the starry palace is drunk on fine heavenly wine, with few winged immortals around him.I think I heard that he was recently Red Pine, the immortal; perhaps he was Zhang Liang of the Han dynasty.Long ago he helped the Liu family establish Chang'an; though he left the council tent, he still grieved deeply.How would I dare speak of my country's success or failure? Sickened by blood and decay, he lives on maple fragrance.People long regretted being detained south of the Zhou court; the Old Man star in the south must promise long life.Why is my fine friend across the autumn waters? How can I bring him here to serve in the palace?

Du Fu — Song of the Ancient CypressBefore Zhuge Liang's shrine stands an old cypress, with branches like bronze and roots like rock.Its frosted bark runs with rain; forty arms could circle it, and its dark crown rises two thousand feet into the sky.Clouds from Wu Gorge touch its heights; when the moon rises, cold whiteness from the Snow Mountains reaches it.Ruler and minister met at the right time; people still love and protect their tree.I remember how yesterday's road curved east of Brocade Pavilion, where the first ruler and his minister shared a shrine.Tall branches stood ancient above the fields; faded paintings filled the empty windows and doors.It has a firm place for its spreading roots, yet standing alone at such a height, it faces violent winds.Spirits must help keep it standing; nature made it so straight and strong.If a great building were about to collapse, it would need beams and pillars; even ten thousand oxen would struggle to drag this mountain's weight.Even without showing its rich grain, it amazes the world; it would not resist the ax, but who could transport it?Its hard heart cannot escape ants; its fragrant leaves still shelter phoenixes.People with great aims and recluses alike should not complain: since ancient times it has been hard to find a use for great talent.

Du Fu — Watching a Student of Lady Gongsun Dance with Swords, with PrefaceLong ago Lady Gongsun was beautiful, and one dance with swords stirred the whole world.Onlookers crowded like hills and lost their composure; heaven and earth seemed to rise and fall with her.She flashed like the suns falling when Yi shot nine of them, and leaped like gods riding dragons upward.Her entrance was like thunder when anger subsides; at the end she was still as the blue light on rivers and seas.Her red lips and beaded sleeves have long vanished, but a student later carried on her art.A fine dancer from Linying performed this piece at Baidi; her skill and spirit were extraordinary.After talking with her, I thought about our times and what had happened, and grew still sadder.The former emperor had eight thousand women serving him; Gongsun's sword dance was the best of them all.Fifty years passed as quickly as turning a hand; war and turmoil darkened the royal family.The Pear Garden performers scattered like smoke; one woman's surviving art now catches the cold sunlight.South of Golden Millet Mound, trees are already as thick as an arm; grasses are dry around the stone city at Qutang.The fast flutes stop and the feast ends; after joy comes sorrow as the moon rises in the east.I am old and do not know where to go; with blistered feet among barren hills, my sadness only grows.

Meng Haoran — Returning to Mount Lumen at NightThe temple bell sounds on the mountain as day turns dark; people crowd the ferry at Fishing Weir, shouting to cross.Others follow the sandy bank toward their riverside village; I too take a boat home to Mount Lumen.The moon over Lumen lights up the trees amid mist, and suddenly I reach the place where Master Pang withdrew from the world.The rocky gate and pine-lined path are always quiet; only a person living apart goes back and forth here.

Liu Zongyuan — The FishermanAt night a fisherman sleeps beside the western cliff; at dawn he draws clear water from the Xiang and burns bamboo from Chu.When the mist clears and the sun rises, he is nowhere to be seen; one cry from his rowing and mountains and waters turn green.I look back toward the sky as his boat goes downstream; over the cliff, carefree clouds follow one another.

Chen Zi'ang — Song on Climbing Youzhou TerraceI see no great people from the past ahead of me and none yet to come behind me.Thinking how endless heaven and earth are, I stand alone, grieving, and tears fall.

Han Yu — Mountain StonesThe mountain rocks were rough and the path was narrow; I reached the temple at dusk as bats flew overhead. I entered the hall and sat on the steps, where fresh rain still lay; banana leaves were broad and gardenias full. A monk said there were fine paintings of Buddhas on the old walls and brought a light, though little could be seen. He spread out a bed, dusted the mat and served soup and rice; even coarse food was enough to satisfy my hunger. I lay still late at night when all the insects had stopped; the clear moon rose over the ridge and lit the door. At dawn I set off alone where no road could be seen, going up and down through the last of the mist. Red hills and green ravines shone all around; I sometimes saw pines and oaks so thick it would take ten arms to circle them. I crossed barefoot, stepping on stones in the stream, with the water splashing and the wind moving my clothes. Life like this could be enjoyable enough; why must we let others confine and control us? Ah, my two or three friends, how can we keep from going back there until we are old?

Han Yu — On the Night of the Fifteenth of the Eighth Month, for Secretary ZhangThin clouds have rolled back on every side; no Milky Way can be seen. A clear wind sweeps the sky, and the moon spreads its light on the water. The sand is flat and the water still; all sound and shadows are gone. As I offer you a cup, you should sing. Your song sounds sad and its words are bitter; I cannot hear it to the end without crying like rain. Dongting Lake meets the sky, the Nine Doubts mountains rise high, dragons appear and vanish, and gibbons and flying squirrels call. Through danger you reached your post barely alive, and lived hidden and silent as if you were a fugitive. Getting out of bed, you feared snakes; eating, you feared poison. Damp, stagnant sea air filled everything with its foul smell. Yesterday a great drum sounded outside the district office: the new emperor had succeeded the former sage and raised worthy ministers to office. The pardon traveled ten thousand miles in a day, freeing even those sentenced to death. Those demoted were recalled and those exiled returned; their faults were washed away and they could join the officials at court. But the district submitted your name and the higher authorities blocked it; in your misfortune you were merely moved to another remote southern post. Your low office as a clerk is hardly worth mentioning, and you are still beaten and humiliated in the dust. Many of our contemporaries are already on the road upward, but the road to court is dark and dangerous, hard to climb after them. Stop your song and listen to mine; my song takes a different view tonight. No night this year has a brighter moon than this one. Life depends on fate, not on anything else; with wine here, how could we refuse to drink under the moon?

Han Yu — Visiting the Temple of Mount Heng, Then Spending the Night at the Mountain Monastery and Writing on Its Gate TowerThe five sacred mountains all receive offerings equal in rank to those for the three highest ministers; they guard the four directions, with Mount Song at the center. This southern land of fire is wild and full of spirits; heaven has given Mount Heng special power over it. Clouds and mist pour from it and hide half its sides; who can reach its highest peak? I came during the season of autumn rain, when dark weather brought no clear wind. I prayed silently and with all my heart, and it seemed I was answered; perhaps honesty can reach the spirits. In a moment the sky cleared quietly, revealing every peak; I looked up at their steep shapes propping up the blue sky. Purple Canopy stretched out to meet Heaven Pillar; Stone Granary rose steeply and piled up beside Zhurong Peak. Struck with awe, I dismounted and bowed, then followed a path among pines and cypresses to the mountain spirit's temple. Whitewashed walls and red columns shone, and paintings of spirits covered them in green and red. I climbed the steps, bent low and offered dried meat and wine, wanting my small offering to show my sincerity. The old temple attendant knew the spirit's wishes and watched closely, bowing as he approached. He held divining blocks and guided me as I cast them, saying the result was the best possible and the others could not equal it. Exiled into the southern wilderness, I am lucky just to be alive, and I would gladly live out my days with enough to eat and wear. I gave up long ago on being a prince, general or minister; even a spirit wanting to bless me could do nothing in that regard. At night I went to a Buddhist temple and climbed a high room; stars and moon appeared and vanished behind hazy clouds. I heard monkeys and bells without noticing the dawn, until the cold sun rose bright in the east.

Han Yu — Song of the Stone DrumsA student named Zhang brought me a copy of the stone-drum inscriptions and urged me to write a song about them. Du Fu is gone and Li Bai is dead; what can someone of my limited talent do with the drums? The Zhou dynasty's order was failing and the whole world was in turmoil when King Xuan rose in anger and took up his weapons. He opened the great court hall to receive honors; the princes' swords and pendants clinked against each other. Hunting at Qiyang, he drove his mighty horsemen; animals for ten thousand miles were caught in their nets. He ordered his achievements carved for all ages, cutting stone into drums from the rough mountains. His attendants were the finest in their arts, and those chosen to compose and carve the words left them in the hills. Rain fell, sun burned and wildfires scorched them, while spirits guarded and protected them. Where did you find a paper copy so accurate down to the smallest stroke? The words are serious and packed with meaning, hard to understand; the letter forms resemble neither later formal script nor ancient tadpole script. Time has inevitably worn away some strokes, yet others look like a sharp sword cutting a living dragon or river monster. The characters seem like phoenixes and mythical birds taking flight, or crowds of immortals descending; like branching coral and green trees. They look like strong knots of gold rope and iron chain, and like an old bronze vessel leaping from water as a dragon darts through it. Narrow-minded scholars did not include these poems in their collection; even its two Great Odes are cramped and lack such breadth. Confucius did not travel west to Qin; in gathering stars, he left out the sun and moon. Ah, I love old things but was born so late; looking at these words, tears stream from my eyes. I recall when I was first appointed a scholar at court, in the year the new era was named Yuanhe. An old friend of mine serving in the western military district measured the hollows the drums sat in for me, to plan how to dig them out. I washed my cap and bathed before telling the head of the academy: few treasures like this remain. Wrapped in felt and matting, they could be brought here at once; ten drums would take only a few camels to carry. Put them in the ancestral temple beside the old bronze cauldron of Gao, and their value would shine a hundred times brighter. If the emperor allowed them to stay at the academy, students could study and discuss them closely. People crowd to see old texts at the Hongdu school; I can already see the entire country rushing to these drums. Remove the moss and scrape away the lichen to expose their corners; set them level and securely in place. Cover them with the deep eaves of a great building so they may endure many years without damage. But senior officials at court have grown set in their ways; rather than show any enthusiasm, they will only mutter in agreement. Boys who herd animals strike fires against them, and cattle rub their horns on them; who will care enough to touch and protect them? Worn away by day and month, they sink toward oblivion; for six years I have looked west and sung about them in vain. Wang Xizhi's fashionable writing sought only pretty forms, yet a few sheets of it could be traded for white geese. After the Zhou, eight dynasties passed through wars; no one gathered these drums or looked after them. Now the country is peaceful and days are free from war, and learned officials have power and honor Confucius and Mencius. How can I bring this matter before the court? I wish I could borrow a voice as strong as a rushing river. Here my song of the stone drums ends. Ah, I fear my hopes are in vain.