Short Poems

The nacreous land had no dust —
I went on, and came to the shore of a gemmy pool:
Under the thickset cedrela trees
A white dragon came to smell a man.

Three or four young sylph women,
Bodies garbed in ultramarine dress,
Held in their hands luminous moon beads,
To knock down golden-hued pears.

I came in a dream to a mountain in the sea,
Entered a certain house of white silver,
Chanced to see a Gentleman of the Way,
Who said he was Li, Eighth Sire.

(Like) the white clouds
Which separate on the hill-top
When the wind blows, —
Is your heart
Quite unreliable?

Rough and dark — the Cold Mountain trail,
Sharp cobbles — the icy creek bank.
Yammering, chirping — always birds
Bleak, alone, not even a lone hiker.
Whip, whip — the wind slaps my face
Whirled and tumbled — snow piles on my back.
Morning after morning I don't see the sun
Year after year, not a sign of spring.

On summer nights
When I wonder " shall I go to bed?",
At a single note sung
By the cuckoo,
Dawn (suddenly) breaks!

Of marsh-mallows my boat is made,
The ropes are lily-roots.
The pole-star is athwart the sky;
The moon sinks low.
It's at the ferry I'm plucking lilies.
But it might be the Yellow River —
So afraid you seem of the wind and waves,
So long you tarry at the crossing.

With voice unceasing
Sing, O nightingale!
In one year
Even as much as twice
Can Spring come?

I was brought up under the Stone Castle:
My window opened on to the castle tower.
In the castle were beautiful young men
Who waved to me as they went in and out.

If frost should fall
On the moor where the travellers are going to spend the night
Enfold my child with your wings
Crane-flocks of the sky!