Last night chirps resounded in the cold,
Through witching hour no sleep occurred.
I rose and slowly walked, alone.
Moonlight window glow, but no one stirred.
I've grayed in service and search of fame.
On hills, back home, the pines have grown old.
That's the story I'd let my lute tell,
If a string weren't broken &
there was someone to be told.
Towards noon fleecy clouds waft in the gentle breeze;
I cross the stream amid flowers and willow trees.
What do the worldlings know about my hearty pleasure?
They'd only take me for a truant fond of leisure.
Note: This is the joint translation of Xu Yuanchong and Xu Ming found in the edition of Golden Treasury of Quatrains and Octaves on which they collaborated (i.e. China Publishing Group: Beijing (2008.))
mountain springtime:
dust cleared by falling water,
climbers swell & green.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 