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 waterNearly 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. --...Oh, let me fling down my official seal,Let me be a lone fisherman in a small boatAnd support my family on fish and wheatAnd content my old age with rivers and lakes!
Press, 1973.About the print versionThe Jade MountainTranslator Witter Bynner.Alfred A.KnopfNew York, 1920 Reprinted with permission of the Witter Bynner Foundation for Poetry.
Alone with her beauty,She leans till dawn on her incense-pillow. In my bed among the woods, grieving that spring must end,I lifted up the curtain on a pathway of flowers,And a flashing bluebird bade me comeTo the dwelling-place of the Red Pine Genie....What a flame for his golden crucible --Peach-trees magical with buds ! TAKING LEAVE OF FRIENDS ON MY WAY TO HUAZHOU.
ON CLIMBING IN NANJING TO THE TERRACEOF PHOENIXES.
And ready for dawnI see arise, far in the east the cold bright sun. impose extra taxes?
IN MY LODGE AT WANG CHUANAFTER A LONG RAIN. A slip of the moon hangs over the capital;Ten thousand washing-mallets are pounding;And the autumn wind is blowing my heartFor ever and ever toward the Jade Pass....Oh, when will the Tartar troops be conquered,And my husband come back from the long campaign! Covet not a gold-threaded robe,Cherish only your young days!If a bud open, gather it --Lest you but wait for an empty bough. But there's no one like her. Will somebody tell me?It's growing rough.
There are many curtains in your care-free house,Where rapture lasts the whole night long....What are the lives of angels but dreamsIf they take no lovers into their rooms?...Storms are ravishing the nut-horns,Moon- dew sweetening cinnamon-leavesI know well enough naught can come of this union,Yet how it serves to ease my heart! While a cold wind is creeping under my mat,And the city's naked wall grows pale with the autumn moon,I see a lone wild-goose crossing the River of Stars,And I hear, on stone in the night, thousands of washing mallets....But, instead of wishing the season, as it goes,To bear me also far away,I have found your poem so beautifulThat I forget the homing birds.
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