The mountain-light suddenly fails in the west,

IN SUMMER AT THE SOUTH PAVILION

THINKING OF XING

The mountain-light suddenly fails in the west,

In the east from the lake the slow moon rises.

I loosen my hair to enjoy the evening coolness

And open my window and lie down in peace.

The wind brings me odours of lotuses,

And bamboo-leaves drip with a music of dew….

I would take up my lute and I would play,

But, alas, who here would understand?

And so I think of you, old friend,

O troubler of my midnight dreams !


Meng Haoran

AT THE MOUNTAIN-LODGE OF THE BUDDHIST PRIEST YE

WAITING IN VAIN FOR MY FRIEND DING

 

Now that the sun has set beyond the western range,

Valley after valley is shadowy and dim….

And now through pine-trees come the moon and the chill of evening,

And my ears feel pure with the sound of wind and water

Nearly all the woodsmen have reached home,

Birds have settled on their perches in the quiet mist….

And still — because you promised — I am waiting for you, waiting,

Playing lute under a wayside vine.


Wang Changling

WITH MY BROTHER AT THE SOUTH STUDY

THINKING IN THE MOONLIGHT OF VICE-PREFECT

CUI IN SHANYIN

 

Lying on a high seat in the south study,

We have lifted the curtain-and we see the rising moon

Brighten with pure light the water and the grove

And flow like a wave on our window and our door.

It will move through the cycle, full moon and then crescent again,

Calmly, beyond our wisdom, altering new to old.

…Our chosen one, our friend, is now by a limpid river —

Singing, perhaps, a plaintive eastern song.

He is far, far away from us, three hundred miles away.

And yet a breath of orchids comes along the wind.


Qiu Wei

AFTER MISSING THE RECLUSE

ON THE WESTERN MOUNTAIN

 

To your hermitage here on the top of the mountain

I have climbed, without stopping, these ten miles.

I have knocked at your door, and no one answered;

I have peeped into your room, at your seat beside the table.

Perhaps you are out riding in your canopied chair,

Or fishing, more likely, in some autumn pool.

Sorry though I am to be missing you,

You have become my meditation —

The beauty of your grasses, fresh with rain,

And close beside your window the music of your pines.

I take into my being all that I see and hear,

Soothing my senses, quieting my heart;

And though there be neither host nor guest,

Have I not reasoned a visit complete?

…After enough, I have gone down the mountain.

Why should I wait for you any longer?