Classic Poem

Paddy fields at Chang'gu, in the fifth month,
A shimmer of green covers the level water
Distant hills rise towering, crag on crag,
Precarious greenery, fearful of falling
Dazzling and pure, no thoughts of autumn yet,
A cool wind from afar ruffles this beauty.
The bamboos' fragrance fills this lonely place,
Each powdered node is streaked with emerald.
The long-haired grass lets fall its mournful tresses,
A bright dew weeps, shedding its secret tears.
Tall trees form a bright and winding tunnel,
A scented track where fading reds sway drunkenly
Swarms of insects etch the ancient willows,
Cicadas cry from high sequestered spots.
Long sashes of yellow arrowroot trail the ground
Purple rushes criss-cross narrow shores
Stones coined with moss lie strewn about in heaps,
Plump leaves are growing in glossy clusters
Level and white are the wave-washed sands,
Where horses stand, printing dark characters
At evening, fishes dart around joyfully,
A lone, lean crane stands stock-still in the dusk
Down in their damp, mole-crickets chirp away
A muted spring wells up with startled splash.
Crooked and winding, Jade Purity Road,
Where the Divine Maiden dwells among orchid blossoms.
Cotton-moss winds around the stones in the stream,
Grimson and purple, mountain fruits hang down
Small cypresses with leaves like layers of fans,
Plump pines oozing essence of cinnabar.
A singing stream runs on melodiously,
Ripe wheat on the dike trails its glowing head
Orioles trill songs of a girl from Min,
A waterfall unfurls satin robes from Chu.
Windblown dew fills laughing eyes
That blossom or wither in crannies and clefts.
Tangled branches jut from stony heights,
Tiny throats chatter by an island spring,
The sun's rays sweep aside the shadow of dusk,
New-risen clouds open their ornate deeps
Pure and still, these oppressive summer days,
Yet a west wind whispers of a cooling air
Luminous, on high her jade-white face
As I burn cinnamon on the Heavenly Altar.
Her robes of mist are fluttering in the night,
She drowses by Her altar, pure of dreams.
The simurghs have aged, awaiting the Emperor's carriage,
The pepper-walls of the ancient palace are ruined.
Yet several of the bells still tinkle faintly,
Arousing this wandering courtier to desolate thoughts
Dark creepers twine about the scarlet bolts,
In dragon-curtains lurk the mountain trolls
Flowering tamarisk clings to emerald brocades,
These scented quilts served nobles long since dead
No songs now stir the dust on worm-eaten beams,
Where dancers' colored robes hang like long clouds.
This precious land is cut from fissured silk,
Our villagers prize truth and righteousness
No sound of pestles is heard when a neighbor mourns,
No evil rites are used to drive off plagues.
The fish-skinned oldsters, virtuous and kind,
The horn-haired children, modest, quick to shame.
The county justices have nothing to do,
No dunning tax collectors call on us.
In bamboo groves we repair our tattered books,
From stony jetties drop in the hook and bait.
Winding rivers girdle us with water,
Banana leaves are slanting paper from Shu.
Light on the peaks, a dazzling silk collar,
The setting sun brushes away my cares.
Our springs are beakers of Governor Tao's wine,
Our moon, the brow of Xie's singing-girl.
Clang of a hidden bell far away
On high, a solitary bird wings home
Rose-mist pinnacles, red and black peaks,
High cataracts roaring as they contend
Pale moths floating in calm emerald,
A veiled moon, distant, faint and sad
Its cold light penetrates the river gorge,
Infinite my thoughts among these mountains.
The fisherman's boy lowers his midnight nets,
Frost white birds soar up on misty wings.
On the pool's mirror, slippery spume of dragons,
And floating pearls exhaled by fishes at play
Windy tong trees, lutes in jasper cases,
Fire-flies' stars, envoys to Brocade City
Willows join their long green sashes,
Bamboos quiver, short flutes playing.
The base of the crag emerges from green moss,
Reed-shoots are peering from the cinnabar pond
Ripples and eddies sport with sky's reflection,
The hands of ancient junipers grasp the clouds.
The mournful moon is curtained with red roses,
Thorns of fragrant creeper catch the clouds
The bearded wheat lies level for hundreds of leagues,
On the untilled acres stand a thousand shops
This man from Chengji, restless and fretful,
Would like to emulate Master Wine-sack's ways.