Classic Poem

The boys of Ch'ien-t'ang practice riding the bore:
with firm poles and long oars they stroke and plunge!
One boy, alone, stands on each deck as if cast in iron,
face the color of ashes, his eyes unblinking, fixed.
The bore rolls in like a mountain—they shoot their boats ahead;
masts and sculls flip over sideways
as the boats stand up on end!
Then—suddenly, they all disappear, without a trace . . .
then reappear on the slow after-waves, a fleet of boats again.
Now the bore has gone down, the waves flow softly,
the boats follow the gulls.
The boys sing and laugh, the mountains are green,
the blue water laps the shore.
This is the way we all should go through the troubles of life:
put up with them while they last—calm waters lie ahead.