By the West Pavilion, on a thousand feet of cliff,
Walking at midnight under my latticed window
Flying stars pass white along the water,
Transparent beams of moonset flicker on the sand.
At home in its tree, notice the secret bird;
Safe beneath the waves, imagine the great fishes
From kinsmen and friends at the bounds of heaven and earth,
Between weapon and buffcoat seldom a letter comes.

Better wait
Than be too late.

Where I have been
There was none seen.

Greater is the depth of sadness
Than is any height of gladness.

Gates massive, a ninefold silence;
windows darkened, the whole room still:
a perfect spot to practice mind cultivation.
What need to be deep in the mountains?

Once when we were living this side of T'ai-po's peak
we went several times to Hsien-yu Temple.
When Black River deeps were clear we could see right to the bottom,
where white clouds parted, the grotto's gaping mouth!
We heated wine among the trees, burning fall leaves,
brushed away green moss to inscribe poems on rocks.
How I regret that those outings will never come again,
envy your return in this chrysanthemum time!

Deep in jumbled peaks, road to Yün-chü:
with others I tramp the blossoms, alone sorrowing for spring.
Beautiful spots have no fixed owner —
mountains belong mostly to people who love mountains.

The deeds of king and meanest hedger,
Stand side by side in heaven's ledger.

From all that dwell below the skies,
Let the Creator's praise arise:
Let the Redeemer's name be sung
Through ev'ry land, by ev'ry tongue.
Eternal are thy mercies, Lord!
Eternal truth attends thy word:
Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore,
Till suns shall rise and set no more.

Stars around the luminous moon — how soon they
hide away their glitter of diamond light, when
she floats over, and at the full, refulgent,
glamors the landscape . . .