A Hundred and Seventy Chinese PoemsI have been ill so long that I do not count the days; At the southern window, evening--and again evening.
Sadly chirping in the gra.s.ses under my eaves The winter sparrows morning and evening sing.
By an effort I rise and lean heavily on my bed; Tottering I step towards the door of the courtyard.
By chance I meet a friend who is coming to see me; Just as if I had gone specially to meet him.
They took my couch and placed it in the setting sun; They spread my rug and I leaned on the balcony-pillar.
Tranquil talk was better than any medicine; Gradually the feelings came back to my numbed heart.
ON THE WAY TO HANGCHOW: ANCh.o.r.eD ON THE RIVER AT NIGHT
Little sleeping and much grieving,--the traveller Rises at midnight and looks back towards home.
The sands are bright with moonlight that joins the sh.o.r.es; The sail is white with dew that has covered the boat.
Nearing the sea, the river grows broader and broader: Approaching autumn,--the nights longer and longer.
Thirty times we have slept amid mists and waves, And still we have not reached Hang-chow!
STOPPING THE NIGHT AT JUNG-YANG
I grew up at Jung-yang; I was still young when I left.
On and on,--forty years pa.s.sed Till again I stayed for the night at Jung-yang.
When I went away, I was only eleven or twelve; This year I am turned fifty-six.
Yet thinking back to the times of my childish games, Whole and undimmed, still they rise before me.
The old houses have all disappeared; Down in the village none of my people are left.
It is not only that streets and buildings have changed; But steep is level and level changed to steep!
Alone unchanged, the waters of Ch'iu and Yu Pa.s.sionless,--flow in their old course.
THE SILVER SPOON
While on the road to his new province, Hang-chow, in 822, he sends a silver spoon to his niece A-kuei, whom he had been obliged to leave behind with her nurse, old Mrs. Ts'ao.
To distant service my heart is well accustomed; When I left home, it wasn't _that_ which was difficult But because I had to leave Miss Kuei at home-- For this it was that tears filled my eyes.
Little girls ought to be daintily fed: Mrs. Ts'ao, please see to this!
That's why I've packed and sent a silver spoon; You will think of me and eat up your food nicely!
THE HAT GIVEN TO THE POET BY LI CHIEN
Long ago to a white-haired gentleman You made the present of a black gauze hat.
The gauze hat still sits on my head; But you already are gone to the Nether Springs.
The thing is old, but still fit to wear; The man is gone and will never be seen again.
Out on the hill the moon is shining to-night And the trees on your tomb are swayed by the autumn wind.
THE BIG RUG
That so many of the poor should suffer from cold what can we do to prevent?
To bring warmth to a single body is not much use.
I wish I had a big rug ten thousand feet long, Which at one time could cover up every inch of the City.
AFTER GETTING DRUNK, BECOMING SOBER IN THE NIGHT
Our party scattered at yellow dusk and I came home to bed; I woke at midnight and went for a walk, leaning heavily on a friend.
As I lay on my pillow my vinous complexion, soothed by sleep, grew sober; In front of the tower the ocean moon, accompanying the tide, had risen.
The swallows, about to return to the beams, went back to roost again; The candle at my window, just going out, suddenly revived its light.
All the time till dawn came, still my thoughts were muddled; And in my ears something sounded like the music of flutes and strings.
REALIZING THE FUTILITY OF LIFE
Written on the wall of a priest's cell, _circa_ 828
Ever since the time when I was a l.u.s.ty boy Down till now when I am ill and old, The things I have cared for have been different at different times, But my being _busy_, _that_ has never changed.
_Then_ on the sh.o.r.e,--building sand-paG.o.das; _Now_, at Court, covered with tinkling jade.
This and that,--equally childish games, Things whose substance pa.s.ses in a moment of time!
While the hands are busy, the heart cannot understand; When there are no Scriptures, then Doctrine is sound.[87]
Even should one zealously strive to learn the Way, That very striving will make one's error more.
[87] This is the teaching of the Dhyana Sect.
RISING LATE AND PLAYING WITH A-TS'UI, AGED TWO
Written in 831
All the morning I have lain perversely in bed; Now at dusk I rise with many yawns.
My warm stove is quick to get ablaze; At the cold mirror I am slow in doing my hair.
With melted snow I boil fragrant tea; Seasoned with curds I cook a milk-pudding.
At my sloth and greed there is no one but me to laugh; My cheerful vigour none but myself knows.
The taste of my wine is mild and works no poison; The notes of my harp are soft and bring no sadness.
To the Three Joys in the book of Mencius[88]
I have added the fourth of playing with my baby-boy.
[88] "Mencius," bk. vii, pt. i, 20.
ON A BOX CONTAINING HIS OWN WORKS
I break up cypress and make a book-box; The box well-made,--and the cypress-wood tough.
In it shall be kept what author's works?
The inscription says PO LO-T'IEN.
All my life has been spent in writing books, From when I was young till now that I am old.
First and last,--seventy whole volumes; Big and little,--three thousand themes.[89]
Well I know in the end they'll be scattered and lost; But I cannot bear to see them thrown away With my own hand I open and shut the locks, And put it carefully in front of the book-curtain.
I am like Teng Pai-tao;[90]
But to-day there is not any w.a.n.g Ts'an.[91]
All I can do is to divide them among my daughters To be left by them to give to my grandchildren.