personality
Is very like yours, but something
Seems to separate between us, as well.
I would wish to find in myself
What there's in you, but I am not
Able to do so. You now say to me,
"Keep your body and soul tight
And complete, hold your life
In your close embrace, and do not
Let your intents and thoughts
Keep working anxiously, that’s all."
With all my efforts to learn
Your good method, your words
Reach only my ears, and
There is nothing better to be said,
Pure and simple. I'd also retort:
“Have you not heard
How a true man deals with himself?
He forgets that the liver is
On the right side of his stature,
While the spleen is on the left.
He takes no care of ears and eyes;
He seems completely lost
And aimless beyond the dust
And dirt of the mundane world,
Enjoyed himself at ease
In occupation untroubled
By affairs of businesses and trades
Run all around him by others,
Not by himself. He may be
Described as acting and yet
Not relying on what he does,
As being superior and yet
Not using his superiority
To exercise any sort of control,
Dwelling on it for his private end.
But now you'd make a display
Of your wisdom to astonish
All the ignorant; you'd cultivate
Your personality to make inferiority
Of others more apparent;
You seek to shine as though
You were carrying the sun
And the moon in your both hands.
That you're complete
In your well-built frame,
With your soul and flesh firmly tied
And with all bodily nine openings,
And that you have not yet
Encounter any serious damage
And calamity in the middle
Of your age, such as deafness
Or blindness or lameness
Or HIV-positive, Heaven forbid,
And can still take your place
As a man among other men --
In all this you are goodly fortunate.
What leisure you have
Putting yourself above other men
And lecturing them to no purpose?
Now grab your stuff and
Wend your way to do what you do,
As I am going my way to do
What I have to do there and then.
40
On High
These mountains hide many secluded wonders—
All climbers always come to be struck with awes.
The moon's disc shines in the transparent waters
Of the mountain brooklets, the rapids are vying
With each other in telling the cock-and-bull tales;
The winds blow, waving and swaying the sedges.
When the season passes the aged withered plums
Become bloomed over again with snow; bare trees
Are filled with pink clouds for their shaggy crowns.
After the rain touch everything around is refreshed
And vivid; if it is not a sunny day, no one come up
To see me in mid air. My life stands still between
Climbing up and climbing down, my delights and
My woes, a nightingale’s warble and a tiger’s roar.
41
Daybreak of Parting
Late at twilight I passed the grey slope
Of the verdant hills, and the moon's face
Followed me hotfoot, dogging my heels;
Her eyes were fixed on me devotedly and
In her eyes I discerned irredeemable woe --
There were only a couple of small hours
Till daybreak cut off our visual contact.
42
A Fair Lady of My Dreams
A fair lady from my sweet
And slightly childish dreams,
Upon smartening herself up
Near a window, looks out thru it
To feel sad in the dying sunset.
In the shade of the glossy willows,
Just outside her window,
She fears the wind might arise
And tousle her lofty hairstyle.
Before she speaks, she reddens,
Like a cherry ripe-broken,
Like an ice statue, molten;
But in a moment she moves her lips --
A string of notes -- scented,
Tremulous and golden -- busts out
To fill up the air with fragrance.
When she turns sideways
Her beauty may be a subject
Of the following verbal painting:
Sideways is inclining,
Her jade hair-pin is declining;
The dark arc of her brows curves,
Like the new moon reclining and
Into her velvet temples resigning.
When she walks, her grace
May be depicted in the following
Parlance of delight:
She moves her steps, cunning
And pretty; her soft skin sounds,
Like a babyish ditty;
So gracefully tender
And so helplessly immature,
Like a weeping willow long twigs
Before her twisting in a soft
And gentle breeze giddying.
Lightly dipping her gauzy scarf,
The breeze entwines her slender waist
With its caressing touch. . .
Still, reddened and naked
She shows herself
When she's sure of being alone,
In solitude,
Soaring in mid air and beyond
The fathomless azure of space.
43
Two Banks of One Stream
When cuckoo had cried the fourth chilly watch
Into these small hours of the dawn, then I rose,
Lest the silkworms, short of the mulberry leaves,
Hunger might. Lighting up then my way back,
Who'd think that those young ladies and nobles
Weren't yet through with their all night dancing.
I looked at the sky and the silver moon shone
Thru the willows under their mansion's windows
That dropped the bitter sap into the ditch beneath.
44
On the Eve of Mid-Autumn Feast
As usual, at my little pool's edge I drink
Illumined by the pendulous moon’s disc;
A pot of wine sinks into the thick grasses
Because this evening hour alone I drink
Without a boon companion of mine --
My good compotator from the nearby
Daoist Temple named 'Bamboo Grove'
Who often shares my booze with me
Once dropping in at my place to drink.
Tonight, Her Majesty Moon,
Reflecting brightly into the pool, I see,
Does not drink from the wine-pot
Whilst my shadow silently follows my hand,
Now up, now down, pushing me forward
A fit of my loneliness and blues.
I am going to keep this silent company
For some more time and then
Wend my way to the nearby village
To have a real gaiety throughout the night
In high gear of the Mid-Autumn Festival,
As only joys shared with the other men,
They say, are more enjoyable, my friend!
45
Reminiscences
So much of life is merely a farce!
It’s sometimes as well as to standby
And look at it a
nd smile, better,
Perhaps, than to take part in it.
Like a dreamer suddenly awakened,
We usually see our life, not with
The romantic colouring
Of last night's dream but with
A saner viewing. We are more ready
To give up all the dubious, glamorous
And mostly unattainable but
At the same time to hold on
To some few things that we know
Could give us some happy moments.
We always go back to Mother Nature
As an eternal source of beauty
And of the true and deep and
But once deprived of any progress
And of internal power, we yet
Throw open our windows
And listen to the chirr of cicadas
Or to falling autumn leaves
And inhale the fragrance
Of the yellowish chrysanthemums,
And over the top there shines
The autumn moon's pendent brow --
We are content for a poised while.
For we are now in the late summer,
The height of our farcical life.
There comes a rare time in our routine
When, as individuals, we're pervaded
To the brim by the spirituals
Of early autumn tune, in which
The greenish tints are mixed
With gold but sadness with joy,
And all hopes are mixed with
Reminiscences of the olden days,
Stirring up the eerie affection for them.
46
The Charm of Early Autumn
Inevitably there comes a time in our life
When the innocence of spring is a memory
And the exuberance of summer -- a song
Whose echoes faintly remain in mid air;
When, as we all look out on our life,
The problem is not how to grow but
How to live truly; not how to strive but
How to enjoy the precious moments;
Not how to squander our energy but
How to conserve it in preparation for
The coming winter, without dissipation.
A sense of having arrived somewhere,
Of having settled and found out desired;
A sense of having achieved something
Is also precious little compared with
Its past plenty, but still it is something,
Like an autumn mountain slope shorn
Of the summer glory but retaining as it is,
And what's more, will firmly endure.
I would prefer spring, but it's too young;
I'd like upgrowth of summer, but, alas,
It's too proud of itself; therefore,
I like best of all autumn, its starting phase,
Because its leaves are readily yellowish,
Its tone is mellower, its colours are richer,
And it is tinged a little bit with sorrow,
Granting us premonition of untimely end.
Its golden ripeness and surplus richness
Speaks not of the innocence of springtime,
Nor of the power of summer but
Of the mellowness and sagely wisdom
Of approaching ageing and imminence --
It knows the limits of life and is fully content.
From a knowledge of those limitations
And its wide experience, in the ascendant,
A symphony of tints and colours emerges,
Which is richer than of any others;
Its green speaking of vigour and strength,
Its orange speaking