Short Poems

Even fools can know and can do.
Is it not easy then?
Yet even sages cannot know all.
Is it not difficult then?
Pondering whether it's easy or hard
makes me forget I grow old.

The green hills—how can it be
that they are green eternally?
Flowing streams—how can it be—
night and day do they never stand still?
We also, we can never stop,
we shall grow green eternally.

Many years have slipped by since
I left the path I used to tread.
For awhile I went elsewhere,
but at last I have returned.
And now that I have come back,
my heart shall never roam again.

The men of old never saw me,
I never saw the men of old.
Though I never saw the men of old,
the paths they trod still stretch ahead.
If the paths they trod still stretch ahead,
should I not tread them too?

The thunder can split the mountain,
the deaf man cannot hear;
The noon sun can burn white in mid-heaven,
the blind man still will not see.
Men like us, keen-eared, clear-eyed healthy males,
should not be like the deaf and blind.

Back at the High Cloud Terrace
my study is bright and clean.
A lifetime of books
has meant delights without end.
What words can I find to describe
delights of leisurely walks?

Springtime flowers fill the mountains,
the autumn moon floods the terrace,
The joys of the year are
the stuff of life itself.
Moreover: fish leap, kites soar, clouds pass,
and the sun shines:
Shall they never have an end?

The terrace fronts the mountain,
the water flows below:
Thick flocks of gulls
wheel to and fro in the air.
Why, oh why, glossy white colt,
is your heart set far away?

The orchids in the valley
breathe a fragrance in the air,
The white clouds on the mountains
offer wonder to the eyes—
In a place like this it is impossible
to forget the one I serve.

If they say that grace is gone,
then they surely speak a lie.
If they say human nature is noble,
then they surely tell the truth.
Could it be that so many clever men
have been so much deceived?