English

Write in a lively style, as fish swim in the water;
in the midst of substance, put in something light.
The ancients wrote books without using any theory:
writers of today can't write a thing
unless they have a theory.

All morning long I correct my books, changing " lu " to " yii , "
but doubts are dispelled only when the mind is void.
The door swings open — the south wind enters
and scatters the books all over the floor.

Willow catkins, white as cotton,
the fluff has just appeared;
damson plums, new and green,
the pits have still not formed.
A woman serves wine at the counter
wearing a melon-shaped hat;
a young girl takes a sip of wine,
lips as red as cherries.

This morning the air is fine for Ch'ing-ming;
along the river, wild flowers open everywhere.
An old farmer earnestly carries flowers to the grave:
two butterflies follow him, flying where he goes.

A thousand threads, ten-thousand strands
are tied to the child's arm.
They hope the child will live a good long life,
a year for every inch of cord!

They make a fake tiger, and hope it will seem real,
then hang the ferocious beast outside the door.
If the evil spirits have any brains at all
when they see this thing, they will not be afraid.

You think I am happy:
in my heart, I suffer!
A fake smile on my face, I play the p'i-p'a:
but the tune is wild, music never written down.

One morning I call for a sedan-chair man;
his face shows amazement as he looks at me.
" Can it not be possible
that you and I have met once in this life? "
The bearer rubs his eyes,
looks again, and sighs again.
He says that when I was first married
it was he who pushed the marriage car!
Now that scholar, so young and handsome,
has changed appearance like the morning mist.
How is it that the second time we meet
I should have become so very ancient?
Before the bearer has finished talking

Of my flesh and blood, only one remains,
my sister, ten years older than me.
I go to see her, knocking at her door;
white hair hangs about her face.
When she hears the sound and knows her brother's here
she comes out to greet me, in fine spirits.
She speaks many words with much self-awareness,
sitting upright, instructs me forcefully.
And we agree that the next day
together we will visit mother's tomb.
In years past, to wait upon
her compassionate visage
there were only my sister and myself.

Of all the famous Hangchou sights
everyone says that West Lake is the best.
I happen to have come in a dry winter
when West Lake is smaller than before.
Even brisk winds do not raise waves;
mudbanks emerge, covered with reeds.
But still I go floating in a little boat,
to view the scene and clarify my mind.
Hills and gullies — I recognize the new and old;
pavilions and terraces — classify the skillful and clumsy.
Clouds congeal, it darkens in broad daylight;
the trees all shed, the mountain is desolate.