TWO POEMS WRITTEN AS PARTING GIFTS TO TS'UI (THE OFFICIAL) OF CH'IU PU
I love Ts'ui of Ch'iu Pu. He follows the ways of the Official T'ao. At his gate, he has planted five willow-trees, And on either side of the well, crowding it between them, stand two wu-t'ung trees. Mountain birds fly down and listen while he transacts business; From the eaves of his house, flowers drop into the midst of his wine. Thinking of my Lord, I cannot bear to depart. My thoughts are melancholy and endless.
My Lord is like T'ao of P'êng Tsê. Often, during the day, he sleeps at the North window. Again, in the moonlight, he bends over his table-lute and plays, His hands follow his thoughts, for there are no strings. When a guest comes, it is wine alone which he pours out. He is the best of officials, since he does not care for gold. He has planted many grains on the Eastern heights, And he admonishes all the people to plow their fields early.
SENT AS A PARTING GIFT TO THE SECOND OFFICIAL OF CH'IU PU
In the old days, Ch'iu Pu was bare and desolate, The serving-men in the Official Residence were few. Because you, my Lord, have planted peach-trees and plum-trees, This place has suddenly become exuberantly fragrant. As your writing-brush moves, making the characters so full of life, you gaze at the white clouds; And, when the reed-blinds are rolled up, at the kingfisher-green of the fading hills; And, when the time comes, for long at the mountain moon; Still again, when you are exhilarated with wine, at the shadow of the moon in the wine-cup. Great man and teacher, I love you. I linger. I cannot bear to leave.
SAYING GOOD-BYE TO LIU SIXTEEN ON HIS RETURN TO THE HILLS
The hills of Ch'u, The hills of Ch'in, White clouds everywhere. White clouds follow my Lord always, From place to place. They always follow My Lord, When my Lord arrives at the hills of Ch'u. Clouds also follow my Lord when he floats In a boat on the river Hsiang, With the wild wistaria hanging above The waters of the river Hsiang. My Lord will go back To where he can sleep Among the white clouds, When the sun is as high As the head of a helmeted man.
WIND-BOUND AT THE NEW FOREST REACH. A LETTER SENT TO A FRIEND
Tidal water is a determined thing, it can be depended on; But it is impossible to make an appointment with the wind of Heaven. In the clear dawn, it veers Northwest; At the last moment of sunset, it blows Southeast. It is therefore difficult to set our sail. The thought of our happy meeting becomes insistent. The wide water reflects a moon no longer round, but broken. Water grass springs green in the broad reach. Yesterday, at the North Lake, there were plum-flowers; They were just beginning to open, the branches were not covered. To-day, at dawn, see the willows beyond the White Gate; The road is squeezed between them, they drop down their bright green silk threads. Everything stirs like this, with the year-- When will my coming be fixed? Willow-blossoms lie thick as snow on the river, I am worried, the heart of the traveller is sad. "At daybreak I will leave the New Forest Reach"-- But what is the use of humming Hsieh T'iao's poem.