You're a vessel
full of fresh tea leaves.
After I enter,
I forget the old tea,
I forget the old tea.

Narcissus and chrysanthemum —
lovely shapes together;
she places them in a porcelain vase,
two or three of each.
Bending low beside the little window
in flickering lamplight shadows,
my jade one has risen from her sick bed,
braving the cold air.

Clusters of cold-weather blossoms,
standing quietly:
each branch weighted with mottled beauty now.
I think of consulting you for tips on flower arrangement —
but here they are before my eyes, in lamplight,
against a white wall.

Write in a lively style, as fish swim in the water;
in the midst of substance, put in something light.
The ancients wrote books without using any theory:
writers of today can't write a thing
unless they have a theory.

All morning long I correct my books, changing " lu " to " yii , "
but doubts are dispelled only when the mind is void.
The door swings open — the south wind enters
and scatters the books all over the floor.

Willow catkins, white as cotton,
the fluff has just appeared;
damson plums, new and green,
the pits have still not formed.
A woman serves wine at the counter
wearing a melon-shaped hat;
a young girl takes a sip of wine,
lips as red as cherries.

This morning the air is fine for Ch'ing-ming;
along the river, wild flowers open everywhere.
An old farmer earnestly carries flowers to the grave:
two butterflies follow him, flying where he goes.

When, forehead full of torments hot and red,
The child invokes white clouds of hazy dreams,
Two sisters tall and sweet draw near his bed,
Whose fingers frail nails tip with silv'ry gleams.

The child before a window open wide,
Where blue air bathes a maze of flowers, they sit;
And in his heavy hair dew falls, while glide
Their fingers terrible with charm through it.

So hears he sing their breath a dread hush curbs;
How rich with rose and leafy sweets it is!
It sometimes a salival lisp disturbs

" Lead forth my gallant myrmidons
The battle shock to meet,
For the dark cloud of Trojan war
Hangs grimly o'er our fleet:
The Argive troops are fettered in
Along the ocean strand,
Scantly maintaining as their own,
That narrow strip of land:
But the whole of Troy is rushing on,
Without a thought of fear;
No longer see they now the front
Of my helmet blazing near.

Then with stern looks in answer spoke,
Achilles famed for speed;
" Oh wretch in insolence attired!
Oh spirit bent on greed!
Why should the Greeks thy words obey?
Why should they journeys take?
And stoutly, against warlike men,
Do battle for thy sake?

Not through the spear-arm'd sons of Troy,
Came I to fight and slay;
They wronged not me, they drove no steer,
No steed of mine away;