Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
Old trees with tangled hanging tassels by a deserted temple open to the river. Rain, rain threw down the clay statues and wind blew down this ancient building. Wild birds nest in dusty shrines, fishermen hold a bamboo lottery cup. About to play the tune "Mountain Ghost," I stop: the Verses of Chu make me too sad.
Translation: Barnstone, Tony and Ping, Chou. 2005. The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry: From Ancient to Contemporary. New York: Anchor Books.