From one thousand mountains, birds have vanished.
Over ten-thousand paths, not one footprint.
A lone boat, an old man in coarse cloak and hat:
Just he, fishing in the cold, river snow.
Original Chinese:
千山鳥飛絕
萬徑人蹤滅
孤舟蓑笠翁
獨釣寒江雪
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian." Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say "These wounds I had on Crispian's day." Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words -- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester -- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered -- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's Day.
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place your sight can knock on, echoing; but here within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze will be absorbed and utterly disappear: just as a raving madman, when nothing else can ease him, charges into his dark night howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels the rage being taken in and pacified. She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly.
NOTE: This translation by Stephen Mitchell. Originally titled, “Schwarze Katze,” the poem in German is:
Schwarze Katze Ein Gespenst ist noch wie eine Stelle, dran dein Blick mit einem Klange stößt; aber da an diesem schwarzen Felle wird dein stärkstes Schauen aufgelöst: wie ein Tobender, wenn er in vollster Raserei in Schwarze stampft, jählings am benehmenden Gepolster einer Zelle aufhört und verdampft. Alle Blicke, die sie jemals trafen, scheint sie also an sich zu verhehlen, um darüber drohend und verdrossen zuzuschauern und damit zu schlafen. Doch auf einmal kehrt sie, wie geweckt, ihr Gesicht und mitten in das deine: und da triffst du deinen Blick im geelen Amber ihrer runden Augensteine unerwartet wieder: eingeschlossen wie ein ausgestorbenes Insekt.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
Afar, colorful mountains. Near, silent waters. Spring 's gone but flowers remain. People come but birds aren't startled.
Original: 遠看山有色 近聽水無聲 春去花還在 人來鳥不驚
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.
If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why?
Assuming no babel fish technology – i.e. that we’d need a common language – I’d say William Blake, Walt Whitman, or Mark Twain. The latter would probably be the most fun, the middle the most uplifting, and the first the most insightful (or perhaps most mystical.)
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and none else, The day what belongs to the day -- at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 