Classic Poem

Desolate poems of chaotic times — could I bear
to hear them again?
Misty peaks like ochre wash,
waters like burnt-out ash!
Beneath Po Chü-i's embankment of white sand,
reeds from the era of T'ang;
beside the tomb of the Prince of O,
clouds that date from Sung.
In the trees the orioles —
today they are my friends;
perched on a branch, a cuckoo sings —
in days of old, a king!
Like " K'un-ming Lake, " after dissolution —
a bell still sounds through the air:
coiling among the lakeside mountains
it proclaims eventide.

In hermit's robe, clean and simple,
with peaked cap on my head,
I climb to each red chamber,
then ride in painted boats.
Bamboo groves are fresh and lovely,
here where cranes were trained;
springtime breezes are mild and serene
in this paradise for flowers.
Butterflies flit through willow gardens,
greeting reddish pollen;
orioles sit on peachtree banks
awaiting winds and strings.
It must be that in times of peace,
tranquil days like these,
the lake and mountains easily
become the haunts of gods.