In the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying;
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
A clear stream passes by the
mountain clad in green;
The clear sky and clear water
melt in autumn hue.
Far far away from the tumultuous
world unclean,
Long long will white clouds and
red leaves be friend to you.
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) p. 64.)
after harvest
cows stubble graze, &
egrets hunt in the wake.
pavement glistens;
yellow leaves sodden:
nothing moves... but drips.
Now close the windows and hush all the fields;
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
It is autumn; not without,
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves
Comes no murmur from the mill.
crisp leaves rattle in a gust,
but a chipmunk climbs in silence.
Autumn sunlight
strikes dry pampas grass
and it flares gold.
deep autumn blue;
a harvested field,
alive with crickets.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 