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jiang nan quü
jià dé qú táng jia
zhao zhao wù qiàn qi
zao zhi cháo you xìn
jià yú nòng cháo ér
Li I
xin jiá niáng
san yì yù chú xià
xi shou zùo shí tang
wèi an gu shí xìng
xian qian xiao gu cháng
Wang Chien
cháng gan xìng
qìe fà chu fù è
zhé hùa men jián jù
láng qí zhú ma lái
yào chuáng nòng qing méi
tóng ju cháng qian li
liáng xiao wú qian cai
shí aì wéi jun fu
xiou yán wéi cháng kai,
di tóu xiàng àn bì
qian huàn bù i huéi
shí wu shi zhan méi
yàn tóng chén yu huei
cháng cuén bào zhù xìn
qi shàng wàng fu tái
shí liòu ju en yuan xíng
qú táng yàn yù dui
wu yùe bù ke chù
yán shen tan shàng yúan
mén qán chí xin jì
yi yi sheng lù tai
tai shen bù néng sao
lùo yè qou fong zao
ba yuè hú díe lái
shuang féi xi yúan cao
gan ci shang qiè xin
cùo zhóu hóng yán lao
cao wan xià san ba
yù jiang shu bào jia
xiang yéng bú dào yuan
zhí dào cháng feng sha
Li Po
ban zhú tong diàn
xue ran ban ban chéng jing wén
qian nián yí hèn zhì jin cúen
fen míng zhi shì xiang fei lèi
hé ren jiang shen wùo lèi hén
Tu Mu
xue jiang
qian shan niao fei júe
wàn jìng rén zong mìe
gu zhou suo lì wong
dú diào hán jian xue
Liu Tsung-Yüan
ti zeng fang
zong lu hua man yuàn
tai xian rù xián fáng
bi ci míng yán júe
kong zhong wén yì xiang
Wang Ch'ang-Ling
chú zhou xi jiàn
dú lián you cao jiàn bian shen
shàng you huáng lì shen shù míng
chun cháo dài yu wan lái jí
ye dù wú rén zhou zì héng
Wei Ying-Wu
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Song of South of the River
Married to a Chu-t'ang river trader
Morn, and morn, and tidings never come.
If I had only known how faithful tide can be . . .
Better to have wed a player on the waves.
trans. Jerome P. Seton
The New Wife
On the third day she went down to the kitchen,
Washed her hands, prepared the broth.
Still unaware of her new mother's likings,
She asks his sister to taste.
trans. Jerome P. Seton
Ballad of Ch'ang-Kan
My hair barely covered my forehead then.
My play was plucking flowers by the gate.
You would come on your bamboo horse,
Riding circles round my bench, and pitching green plums.
Growing up together here, in Ch'ang-kan.
Two little ones; no thought of what would come.
At fourteen I became your wife,
Blushing and timid, unable to smile,
Bowing my head, face to dark wall.
You called a thousand times, without one answer.
At fifteen I made up my my face,
And swore that our dust and ashes should be one,
To keep faith like “the Man at the Pillar.”
How could I have known I'd climbed the Watch Tower?
For when I was sixteen you journeyed far,
To Chü-t'an Gorge, by Yan-yü Rocks.
In the fifth month, there is no way through.
There the apes call, mournful to the heavens.
By the gate, the footprints that you left,
Each one greens with moss,
So deep I cannot sweep them.
The falling leaves, the autumn wind is early,
October's butterflies already come,
In pairs to fly above the western garden's grass.
Wounding the heart of the wife who waits,
Sitting in sadness, bright face growing old.
Sooner or later, you'll come down from San-pa,
send me a letter, let me know.
I'll come out to welcome you, no matter how far,
All the way to long Wind Sands.
trans. Jerome P. Seton
Lying among the 'Bloodstained Bamboo'
Dyed drop by drop with blood, become a flowery brocade,
A thousand years of anguish, to this day.
Clearly these are Hsiang-fei's tears.
How could I bear to lie upon these traces?
trans. Jerome P. Seton
River Snow
A thousand mountains, no birds fly.
Ten thousand paths, no footprints.
Lone skiff, rush-cloaked old man.
Fishing alone, cold river snow.
trans. Jerome P. Seton
In the Company of a Monk
Palm blossoms fill the court.
Moss grows in the empty room.
All conversation done,
in emptiness, sensing a strange fragrance.
trans. Jerome P. Seton
The West River at Ch'u'chou
Alone, for love of hidden herbs, which flourish by the stream.
Above, the yellow oriole sings deep among the trees.
Spring's flood tides, and rain, together, to this evening come.
No man at the ferry: boat drifts there, on its own.
trans. Jerome P. Seton |
