A FAREWELL BANQUET TO MY FATHER'S YOUNGER BROTHER YÜN, THE IMPERIAL LIBRARIAN
When I was young, I spent the white days lavishly. I sang--I laughed--I boasted of my ruddy face. I do not realize that now, suddenly, I am old. With joy I see the Spring wind return. It is a pity that we must part, but let us make the best of it and be happy. We walk to and fro among the peach-trees and plum-trees. We look at the flowers and drink excellent wine. We listen to the birds and climb a little way up the bright hills. Soon evening comes and the bamboo grove is silent. There is no one--I shut my door.
IN THE PROVINCE OF LU, TO THE EAST OF THE STONE GATE MOUNTAIN, TAKING LEAVE OF TU FU
When drunk, we were divided; but we have been together again for several days. We have climbed everywhere, to every pool and ledge. When, on the Stone Gate Road, Shall we pour from the golden flagon again? The Autumn leaves drop into the Four Waters, The Ch'u Mountain is brightly reflected in the colour of the lake. We are flying like thistledown, each to a different distance; Pending this, we drain the cups in our hands.
The bright moon rises behind the Heaven-high Mountain, A sea of clouds blows along the pale, wide sky. The far-off wind has come from nearly ten thousand _li_, It has blown across the Jade Gate Pass. Down the Po Têng Road went the people of Han To waylay the men of Hu beside the Bright Green Bay. From the beginning, of those who go into battle, Not one man is seen returning. The exiled Official gazes at the frontier town, He thinks of his return home, and his face is very bitter. Surely to-night, in the distant cupola, He sighs, and draws heavy breaths. How then can rest be his?
A hundred battles, the sandy fields of battles, armour broken into fragments. To the South of the city they are already shut in and surrounded by many layers of men. They rush out from their cantonments. They shoot and kill the General of the Barbarians. A single officer leads the routed soldiers of the "Thousand Horsemen" returning whence they came.
At Chin Ling, the tavern where travellers part is called the Rest-House of Deep Trouble. The creeping grass spreads far, far, from the roadside where it started. There is no end to the ancient sorrow, as water flows to the East. Grief is in the wind of this place, burning grief in the white aspen. Like K'ang Lo I climb on board the dull travelling boat. I hum softly "On the Clear Streams Flies the Night Frost." It is said that, long ago, on the Ox Island Hill, songs were sung which blended the five colours. Now do I not equal Hsieh, and the youth of the House of Yüan? The bitter bamboos make a cold sound, swaying in the Autumn moonlight. I pass the night alone, desolate behind the reed-blinds, and dream of returning to my distant home.