In an idle hour I thought of former days;
And former friends seemed to be standing in the room.
And then I wondered “Where are they now?”
Like fallen leaves they have tumbled to the Nether Springs.
Han Yü[1] swallowed his sulphur pills,
Yet a single illness carried him straight to the grave.
Yüan Chēn smelted autumn stone[2]
But before he was old, his strength crumbled away.
Master Tu possessed the “Secret of Health”:
All day long he fasted from meat and spice.
The Lord Ts‘ui, trusting a strong drug,
Through the whole winter wore his summer coat.
Yet some by illness and some by sudden death …
All vanished ere their middle years were passed.
Only I, who have never dieted myself
Have thus protracted a tedious span of age,
I who in young days
Yielded lightly to every lust and greed;
Whose palate craved only for the richest meat
And knew nothing of bismuth or calomel.
When hunger came, I gulped steaming food;
When thirst came, I drank from the frozen stream.
With verse I served the spirits of my Five Guts;[3]
With wine I watered the three Vital Spots.
Day by day joining the broken clod
I have lived till now almost sound and whole.
There is no gap in my two rows of teeth;
Limbs and body still serve me well.
Already I have opened the seventh book of years;
Yet I eat my fill and sleep quietly;
I drink, while I may, the wine that lies in my cup,
And all else commit to Heaven’s care.
Thinking of the Past - 思旧
On the Way to Hang-chow: Anchored on the River at Night - 夜泊旅望
Little sleeping and much grieving – the traveler
Rises at midnight and looks back towards home.
The sands are bright with moonlight that joins the shores;
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 Hangchow!
Madly Singing in the Mountains - 山中独吟
There is no one among men that has not a special failing:
And my failing consists in writing verses.
I have broken away from the thousand ties of life:
But this infirmity still remains behind.
Each time that I look at a fine landscape:
Each time that I meet a loved friend,
I raised my voice and recite a stanza of poetry
And marvel as though a God had crossed my path.
Ever since the day I was banished to Hsün-yang
Half my time I have lived among the hills.
And often, when I have finished a new poem,
Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.
I lean my body on the banks of White Stone:
I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch.
My mad singing startles the valleys and hills:
The apes and birds all come to peep.
Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world,
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men.
On the Birth of His Son - 洗儿戏作
Families, when a child is born
Want it to be intelligent.
I, through intelligence,
Having wrecked my whole life,
Only hope the baby will prove
Ignorant and stupid.
Then he will crown a tranquil life
By becoming a Cabinet Minister.
Fighting South of the Ramparts - 战城南
Last year we were fighting at the source of the Sanggan;
This year we are fighting on the Onion River road.
We have washed our swords in the surf of Parthian Seas;
We have pastured our horses among the snows of the Tian Shan.
The King’s armies have grown grey and old
Fighting ten thousand leagues away from home.
The Huns have no trade but battle and carnage;
They have no fields or ploughlands,
But only wastes where white bones lie among yellow sands.
Where the House of Qin built the Great Wall that was to keep away the Tartars,
There, in its turn, the House of Han lit beacons of war.
The beacons are always alight, fighting and marching never stop.
Men die in the field, slashing sword to sword;
The horses of the conquered neigh piteously to Heaven.
Crows and hawks peck for human guts,
Carry them in their beaks and hang them on the branches of withered trees.
Captains and soldiers are smeared on the bushes and grass;
The general schemed in vain.
Know therefore that the sword is a cursed thing
Which the wise man uses only if he must.
My Servant Wakes Me - 懒放二首呈刘梦得吴方之
My servant wakes me: “Master, it is broad day.
Rise from bed; I bring you bowl and comb.
Winter comes and the morning air is chill;
To-day your Honour must not venture abroad.”
When I stay at home, no one comes to call;
What must I do with the long, idle hours?
Setting my chair where a faint sunshine falls
I have warmed wine and opened my poetry-books.