(722–780)
Gazing from High on the Mountain in the Rainy Season and Thinking of the Monks in the Yu-lin Monastery
FROM the mountain, rain upon the misty sea,
dripping foam from these misty trees.
It looks as if in that vastness
those dark isles might any moment fly away.
Nature has angered the eight-headed spirit of the sea.
The rushing tides stir up the road of the clouds.
The true men fill my thoughts,
but a single reed can’t float across.
Sad thoughts of the times at Red Cliff,
wishing I could harness wild swans and drive.
[J.P.S.]
The Master of Hsiang Plays His Lute
HE plays his cloud-topped lute so well
we hear the Lady-of-the-River.
The god of the stream is moved to dance in emptiness.
The traveler of Ch’u can’t bear to listen:
a bitter tune to chill both gold and stone.
Pure notes pierce the gloomy dark.
Deep green Wu-t’ung brings sad thoughts on.
White iris there recalls a certain fragrance.
The waters flow between Hsiang’s banks.
Mournful winds cross Lake Tung-t’ing.
Song done, and no one to be seen.
On the river, many peaks, all green.
[J.P.S.]