New Inkbound Anthology of Poets

[Farmer] Pity the Farmer I Li Shen In spring one grain of seed is sown; in autumn thousands more are grown. No idle fields are seen around; yet farmers starve on barren ground. Pity the Farmer II Li Shen At noon they hoe the grain in heat; their sweat drops on the soil replete. Who knows the rice upon the plate? Each grain comes from a bitter fate. Farm Homes on the Wei River Wang Wei The slanting sun lights the village below; in narrow lanes, flocks and herds go. The old man minds his herd boy so dear; leaning on staff, he waits by the door near. The pheasant calls where wheat is tall; silkworms rest on leaves, in a thrall. The farmer comes with hoe in hand; they chat friendly, on the land. I admire this leisure and peace; but sigh and chant "Homeward" with ease. Song of the Old Farmer Zhang Ji The aged farmer lives in mountain's side; he tills a few acres, with crops not wide. The taxes are high, he can't feed his kin; the grain goes to granaries, turns to dust within. When winter comes, the plough lies in the room; he calls his son to climb for acorns to consume. The merchant has pearls worth a hundred gold; on his boat, dogs eat meat, so bold. Watching the Farm Family Wei Yingwu The rain makes flowers fresh and gay; the thunder wakes the earth from clay. The farmer's rest is short, I say; from now he ploughs and sows each day. The young men toil in fields so wide; the garden plots are all well-tied. They come back home at eventide; and lead calves to the stream beside. They bear their toil and hunger's woe; but rain makes their spirits glow. The barn has no grain, it is so; the corvee still makes them undergo. I'm shamed that those who never sow; yet from the village get their own. Watching the Wheat Harvest Bai Juyi Farmers have few months at ease; in May their toil and stress increase. At night the south wind starts to blow, and wheat turns golden on the row. Women bring food in baskets light; children carry jugs with might. They follow to the fields so wide, where strong men work on southern side. Their feet are steamed by summer soil; their backs are scorched with fiery toil. Though spent, they feel no heat at all, but fear the long day's curtain fall. A poor woman is standing near, holding her child so dear. Her right hand gleans the fallen ear; her left holds a worn basket sere. I hear her words of grief so deep; all who listen cannot sleep. Her fields have paid all tax to grain; she picks this to sustain her pain. What merits have I, who don't plow the land, but enjoy the rice at hand? My salary is three hundred stones; at year's end surplus fills my bones. This shames me, I can't hide inside; how can I forget though I tried? [Fisherman] Song of the Fisherman Li Qi What old white-haired man is here in sight, in straw cloak and hat, by the stream so bright? He shuns the world and its official ways, by the clear river he fishes all his days. His feet are washed in the sandy glow, his line is cast in the moonlight low. He lodges by rapids, roams with a song, through autumn and spring he moves along. His rod is bamboo from Xiang's shore, his fire from reeds. He needs no more. The green waves cook his fragrant rice, the lotus wraps his fish of price. He finds his joy in this his own, and keeps his truth, his heart's alone. He laughs at those who wake in pain, who by the stream endure much strain. Seven Rural Songs: III Wang Wei At ferry's head I glean caltrops in gale; west of the village, the sun slants pale. By the apricot altar, a fisher stays; in Peach Blossom Land, a household's days. Song of Fishery Zhang Zhihe Egrets fly before the western hill; peach blooms and fish in stream are seen. With blue hat and green straw cloak, in wind and rain I am calm and serene.

Seasons I

Astronomy I

[Mountain] In The Mountain Wang Wei The white stones gleam in the stream so bright; red leaves fall thin in the cold autumn light. No rain falls on the winding hill; the green mist wets my gown with its chilly might. Gazing at the Gate of Heaven Mountain Li Bai The river cleaves the heavenly gate in twain; the blue waves eastward flow and turn again. From either bank green mountains stand in row; a single sail comes from the sun's bright glow. Gazing at Mount Tai Du Fu How magnificent then art thou, Mount Tai? Astride two states green ranges rise sky-high. Nature in her well-wrought masterpiece took pride; thy light and shade on opposite slopes divide. The masses of rising vapors broaden my breast, my eyes strained for birds winging to their nest. Surely will I reach the mountain top some day, and thus watch the hills in miniature lay. [Village] Visiting an Old Friend's Farm Meng Haoran My friend prepares chicken and millet to share; he invites me to his cottage, a place so fair. Green trees surround the village, in a close band; blue hills lean beyond the walls, in the far land. I open the window to face the fields and ground; over wine we talk of mulberry and hemp around. When the Double Ninth Festival comes to stay; I'll come again to enjoy the chrysanthemums in display. Farm Homes on the Wei River Wang Wei The slanting sun lights the village below; in narrow lanes, flocks and herds go. The old man minds his herd boy so dear; leaning on staff, he waits by the door near. The pheasant calls where wheat is tall; silkworms rest on leaves, in a thrall. The farmer comes with hoe in hand; they chat friendly, on the land. I admire this leisure and peace; but sigh and chant "Homeward" with ease. Rain over the Mountain Village Wang Jian In rain one or two cocks crow by the cottage door; by bamboo stream and village path, the plank bridge bends lower. The women call each other to bathe the silkworms so; Idly I watch the gardenias in the courtyard grow. Village Walk Du Mu In mid-spring, west of Nanyang I go; the tender mulberries past the village flow. The willow branches sway in the breeze so light; the raindrops dot the pond in rings of white. A cowherd in straw cloak sings his tune; a maid in red peeps through the fence at noon. Half-damp, I take off my travel coat; the host serves chicken and millet, a hearty note. [Wilderness] Gazing at the Wilds Wang Ji At dusk I gaze from Eastern Hill, but where can I find my rest? The trees are all in autumn hue, the hills in sunset dressed. The herdsman drives his calves back home, the hunter brings his game. We look at each other, but none I know—I sing of ancient fame. Wild Walk Bai Juyi My robe is heavy with dew on the grass; my clogs are light on the dry sand, as I pass. I raise my head to hear the bird's song; I stroll along, watching flowers ere long. On leisure days, no official care I keep; in my declining years, a tranquil mind is deep. This fleeting life is shorter than a dream; in dreams, do not strive and scheme. [River] Boating on the Han River Wang Wei The southern fortress meets the three streams' bound; the nine branches from Jingmen flow around. The river rolls beyond the earth and sky; the mountains' hues are there, yet none descry. The towns seem floating on the shore so wide; the billows heave the distant sky with pride. The wind and sun in Xiangyang are so fine; I'd stay and drink with the old hermit divine. Writing My Thoughts on a Night Journey Du Fu The grass blades tremble in the breeze by the shore; a lonely mast stands on the boat at night's core. The stars bend low across the vast plain wide; the moon swells in the river's rushing tide. Does fame come from the verses that I write? My post I lost through age and sickness slight. What am I like, drifting in this world of mine? A lone gull between the earth and sky's design. Ode to the Evening River Bai Juyi The setting sun casts on the water its dye; half green, half red, the river's beauty I spy. How fair the third night of the ninth moon so high; dew like pearls, moon like a bow in the sky.

[Music I] [Qin] Listening to the Monk Jun of Shu Play the Qin Li Bai The monk from Shu brings his lute of jade green; down from Mount Emei's peak he comes, serene. He strums for me a single sweeping tone; as if I hear pines sigh in valleys lone. My heart is cleansed by flowing stream's refrain; its lingering notes melt into frosty bell's strain. Unaware, green hills have faded into night; autumn clouds have dimmed the sky's last light. Listening to Lu Zishun Play the Qin Under the Moon Li Bai In the quiet night I sit beneath the moon so bright; the hermit plays his plain qin, a calming sight. The tune of "Sad Wind" suddenly takes its flight; it echoes like the pines in winter's might. "White Snow" dances beneath his flying hand; "Green Water" cleanses his heart, a tranquil land. But Zhong Qi has long gone from this world's strand; no one alive can ever understand. Listening to Monk Ying's Qin Song Li He Clouds leave the shore for Cassia Isle's domain; from Shu's strings come a pair of phoenixes' strain. Lotus leaves fall, the autumn phoenix flies; the King of Yue by night to Tianmu hies. Dark pendants worn by pure ministers ring; across the sea, fair brows lead white deer in spring. Who sees the sword-bearer to Long Bridge stride? Who sees the hair-dipper write on bamboo's side? The Dharmic monk stands forward at my gate; his brow's high ridge shows truth in solemn state. The great qin's pegs are eight feet long and straight; old Fengyang wood, not from the tung-tree's fate. In cool pavilion, strings startle this sick guest; my medicine bag I leave, my rush mat's rest. Pray sing, but only for the lords and peers; what use is my low office through the years? Playing the Qin on a Night Boat Bai Juyi The birds are perched, the fish lie still and deep; the moon shines on the river in the night so steep. Outside myself, I have no worldly care; inside the boat, only the qin is there. The seven strings are friends to me so true; my two ears are the listeners that knew. When heart is still, the sound grows faint and low; in this I find no ancient or modern, just the flow. [Zheng] Listening to the Zheng Li Duan The golden-pegged zither sounds so grand; her fair hands play in the jade chamber's strand. To win the master's lingering glance, with art; she strikes a wrong note now and then, with heart. Zheng Bai Juyi Her cloud-like hair in greenish hues is dressed; her flower face in rosy red is blessed. Her eyes can cut the autumn water's gleam; her fingers peel the spring onion's green stream. The Chu's fair style is her noble gate; the Qin's clear tone is her skill innate. Her silver nails are bright with polished shine; her jade pegs touch with tinkling chime divine. The ape's sad cry complains the moon's late hour; the oriole's sweet voice speaks to the wind's power. She draws her grief into her fingertips; she sends her sorrow through the strings and tips. The Zhao zither's pure notes seem the same; the Hu fiddle's loud stirs a different flame. A slow tune makes the wild geese seem to part; a quick one whirls the flying reed's art. Her frost-like pendants tinkle and sway; her icy springs now choke, now flow away. A thousand beats like pearls break in the air; one single cut ends the tune with a flare. Her grace refined gives her spirit stead; her pride and skill her moods have wed. When she stops, her feelings still remain; when she rests, her thoughts retain. Beneath the lamp, this youth of spring night's time; before the cup, an old man in his prime. I'll listen, for I ought to hear it all; my aging ears have not yet lost their call.

[Swallow] Ode to the Swallow Zhang Jiuling The sea swallow is small and slight in size; it comes with spring, a transient guest in the skies. It knows not that mud is humble and low; it only sees the jade hall's open glow. Through embroidered doors, it enters two by two; by painted halls, how many times it flew. I bear no heart for worldly strife or chase; O hawks and falcons, do not guess my place. Swallowcall Du Fu They do not only shun the frost and snow; but how their mates are few, and loneliness does grow. Through all four seasons they keep their time; in the eighth moon they know to climb. Will spring's hues ever come to visit me? My young ones still can recognize their destiny. If the old nest should not be ruined whole, I'll fly again beside my master's soul. Late Swallow Bai Juyi All birds have raised their young, their task is done; the autumn swallow lingers, left alone. The time to leave the nest is drawing near; why still carry mud with doubtful cheer? Not knowing that the season is too late; in vain it spends its labor and its fate. The human world is just the same, I find; not only swallows build their nests in kind. Swallow Li Shangyin No more twittering, the old nest is bare; half-open curtains let the breeze in air. Where in high towers can we see the pair? For whom do they fly to the painted hall fair? [Wild Goose] A Poem on Wild Geese, Written in the South Wei Chengqing Southward I go ten thousand miles from home; northward the spring geese fly, and not to roam. I wonder when the time will come, you see; that I can come back home again with thee. Lone Goose I Du Fu The lonely swan won't drink or eat; its cries recall its kind's defeat. Who pities this lone shadow, lost in cloud, from all the rest in misty shroud? It gazes far as if it still could meet; its grief redoubles like a drumbeat fleet. The crows have no such feeling; they just crowd and clamor loud and proud. Homebound Goose Qian Qi Why from the Xiao and Xiang do you so soon return? The water green, sand bright, with moss on banks, we learn. When twenty-five strings play at night their plaintive tone, you can't endure and thus you turn. Early Goose Du Mu At Golden River, mid-autumn, bows are bent; and from the clouds, the startled flocks in sorrow sent. The bronze palm's moonlit shadow passes lone; and from the dim-lit palace, voices come in moan. You know the Tartar horsemen are in throng; they cannot go back with spring wind, all along. Do not disdain the Xiaoxiang's lonely place; with wild rice and berries by the water's face. [Crane] Two Laments for the Crane I Liu Yuxi A lonely pair of cranes in silence stand; their master lives in the Western Capital's land. Their former nest in Wu's garden trees they know; deep in Luoyang's courtyard, the city's row. They pace among the bamboos, slow and mild; their hearts embrace the clouds with feelings wild. Who cares for the fair moon and breeze at night? The neighbor plays the flute with all his might. Crane Du Mu Its pure notes greet the moonlit dawn; it stands in reeds, with thoughts forlorn. Its red crown like a beauty's cheek; its white plumes like old sages' streak. The clouds are wild, the egrets coarse; their spirits rough, without remorse. All day no mate, it stays alone; by the stream it mourns its own. [Heron] Quatrain Du Fu Two golden orioles sing in willows green, a row of white egrets to the blue sky lean. My window frames the western snow with sheen, and by the gate a boat from Wu is seen. The White Egret Liu Yuxi The egret white, of noblest grace. Its plumage rivals snow in white. While other birds make noisy plight, it stands in pensive solitary night. It sleeps alone on grass so green, and lingers long on stones that gleam. The front hills have no cloud in sight; it flies into the azure light. Heron Du Mu White feathered with a beak of jade sheen, they fish in the stream's shadowy scene. Startled, they fly to the green hills' screen, like pear blossoms in the evening serene.