The days of riches are now behind.
I think I thought I lost my mind --
It fell into a deep, dark hole
When my severed head took a roll
Up to the lip, over the edge,
Falling -- I took a solemn pledge:
That my skull drop so straight and true
To hit bottom and rip straight through
To the other side.
When am I coming home? I don't know.
At Bashan, night rains swell Autumn ponds.
Recall, candles in your West Window?
Ah, through night rains, to talk and bond!
The original in Simplified Chinese:
君问归期未有期， 巴山夜雨涨秋池。
何当共剪西窗烛， 却话巴山夜雨时？
Note: This is poem #298 of the 300 Tang Poems [唐诗三百首.]
On a pleasant mid-Spring day,
A bird landed -- no bounce or sway.
It perched, chirping - as if in play:
I blinked, and it'd flown away.
I like to see it lap the Miles --
And lick the Valleys up --
And stop to feed itself at Tanks --
And then - prodigious step
Around a Pile of Mountains --
And supercilious peer
In Shanties -- by the sides of Roads --
And then a Quarry pare
To fit its sides
And crawl between
Complaining all the while
In horrid -- hooting stanza --
Then chase itself down Hill --
And neigh like Boanerges --
Then - prompter than a Star
Stop - docile and omnipotent
At it's own stable door --
Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From antient melody have ceas'd;
Whether in Heav'n ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on chrystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea
Wand'ring in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!
How have you left the antient love
That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
The languid strings do scarely move!
The sound is forc'd, the notes are few!
Yan grass shimmers like silken jade.
Qin mulberry trees' green leaves droop.
Your homecoming is now at hand
As heartbreak has me thin and stooped.
Spring Winds and I are strangers --
Why, past my curtains, the inward swoop?
Chinese Title: 春思; Original poem in Simplified Chinese:
燕草如碧丝， 秦桑低绿枝；
当君怀归日， 是妾断肠时。
春风不相识， 何事入罗帏？
Note: this is poem #7 in “300 Tang Poems” [唐诗三百首]
When the voices of the children are heard on the green
And whisp'rings are in the dale,
The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green and pale.
Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Your spring & your day are wasted in play,
And your winter and night in disguise.
Fame is a fickle food
Upon a shifting plate
Whose table once a
Guest but not
The second time is set
Whose crumbs the crows inspect
And with ironic caw
Flap past it to the
Farmer's corn
Men eat of it and die
A birdie with a yellow bill
Hopped upon the window sill,
Cocked his shining eye and said:
"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?"
Slender grass waves in a light breeze;
Tall-masted boat rocks in the night.
Stars hang low, over the vast plain;
The river moon struggles for height.
I'll never gain fame by the brush --
Too old for civil service posts...
Wading, wading, what am I like?
A sandpiper on the mud coast!
The original in Chinese (Title: 旅夜書懷):
細草微風岸，
危檣獨夜舟。
星垂平野闊，
月湧大江流。
名豈文章著，
官應老病休。
飄飄何所似，
天地一沙鷗。
This is Poem 113 of “Three Hundred Tang Poems,” i.e. 唐诗三百首
Tiger Riding for Beginners 