BY LI T'AI-PO

The clear spring reflects the thin, wide-spreading pine-tree—
And for how many thousand, thousand years?
No one knows.
The late Autumn moon shivers along the little water ripples,
The brilliance of it flows in through the window.
Before I sit for a long time absent-mindedly chanting,
Thinking of my friend—
What deep thoughts!
There is no way to see him. How then can we speak together?
Joy is dead. Sorrow is the heart of man.