Short Poems

Leaves of poplars pick Japanese prints against the west.
Moon sand on the canal doubles the changing pictures.
The moon's good-by ends pictures.
The west is empty. All else is empty. No moon-talk at all now.
Only dark listening to dark.

No , thou hast never griev'd but I griev'd too;
Smiled thou hast often when no smile of mine
Could answer it. The sun himself can give
But little colour to the desert sands.

Sweet and lovely, dimly in my dream,
a warbling oriole, west of my emerald tree…
I rise, the sun is glowing red,
and he has moved to sing in another tree.

Old habits it seems cannot be swept away:
beneath my lamp I go on studying whenever there's leisure time.
I copy things, takes notes on them,
forget them right away
yet still remember all the books
I studied as a child.

Long robes or short,
wide or narrow hats:
the changes of these thirty years
have been ridiculous!
Luckily I went on wearing
the same clothes as before
and now again my ancient fashions
are considered à la mode!

I write characters in lamplight,
dots and strokes all coarse;
I climb the stairs very slowly—
someone must prop me up.
My remaining teeth remind me
of the general at Liao City:
alone he guarded the empty town—
the troops had all withdrawn.

After half a minute of conversation
I feel short of breath;
before I've walked three steps outside
I want to call a carriage.
All that's left are my two eyes,
muddled as they are:
they long to see the flowers
in this foggy world of ours.

This day
that I spent
by a spring
till it got dark,
never tiring—
I must not forget it later,
sitting by
a small coal fire.

For people everywhere
the Way lies straight ahead.

Among the lowborn, too,
must be some who live
in prosperity.