On Old Zhang's Pine Tree
The year grows late beneath the eastern cliff,
I peer all around—how desolate it seems!
The sun sinks in the shadows of western mountains,
And from all plants rises the visage of the cold.
In their midst there is a tall pine,
Which brings me to heave a long sigh.
A hundred feet up without a single branch,
By nature a lifetime straight and alone.
I peer all around—how desolate it seems!
The sun sinks in the shadows of western mountains,
And from all plants rises the visage of the cold.
In their midst there is a tall pine,
Which brings me to heave a long sigh.
A hundred feet up without a single branch,
By nature a lifetime straight and alone.
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