Classic Poem

Stubborn and worthless, one chunk of stone;
pure gold refined a hundred times over:
so far apart in reputation and worth,
yet how deep was our friendship!
Where there's a bond of inner truth,
how can outsiders intrude?
So we went along twenty years
bobbing and sinking with the times,
vowing that later we'd retire from office,
go home white-haired to clouds and woodlands.
Now suddenly in old age I've lost you —
stunned, I speak what's in my heart.
Spring days on bright slopes of Mount Sung,
autumn nights on shady banks of the clear Lo:
but with whom will I choose a hamlet to retire to,
with whom will I seek out those mountains and streams?
With whom will I savor spring breezes, a fall moon,
with whom will I fashion poems?
When blossoms open, with whom will I view them,
when the wine is mellow, with whom will I pour?
After Hui Tzu died, Chuang Tzu fell silent;
after Chung's death, Po Ya put aside his ch'in —
it is our nature to act so —
not now only; in past times too.
From here on my way will be a lone one.
My thoughts — where can I confide them?
As fall winds blow, nothing now
but to wet my collar with tears from these ailing eyes.