Chinese Poet, Musician, Painter and Statesman
Wang Wei, aka Wang Youcheng
Chinese Poet, Musician, Painter and Statesman
A cold rain mingled with the river at evening, when I entered Wu; in the clear dawn I bid you farewell, lonely as Ch'u Mountain. My kinsfolk in Loyang, should they ask about me, tell them: My heart is a piece of ice in a jade cup!
Fine apricot cut for roof-beam. Fragrant cogon-grass tie for eaves. Not know ridgepole in cloud. Go make people among rain. Fine apricot was cut for the roof-beam, fragrant cogon-grass tied for the eaves. I know not when the cloud from this house will go to make rain among the people.
Light boat south hill go. North hill vast expanse hard reach. Separate bank see person home. Long way off not recognize. A light boat sets off from the southern hill, the north is hard to reach across the vastness. On the other bank, I look for my home, it cannot be recognized so far off.
The limpid river, past its bushes running slowly as my chariot, becomes a fellow voyager returning home with the evening birds. A ruined city-wall overtops an old ferry, Autumn sunset floods the peaks...Far away, beside Mount Song, I shall close my door and be at peace.
A morning-rain has settled the dust in Weicheng; willows are green again in the tavern dooryard... Wait till we empty one more cup -- west of Yang Gate there'll be no old friends.
Fly bird go no limit. Join mountain again autumn color. Up down Huazi Ridge. Melancholy feeling what extreme. A bird in flight goes on without limit, joined hills are autumn's colors again. From top to bottom of Huazi Ridge, melancholy feeling has no end.
Light cloud pavilion light rain. Dark yard day weary open. Sit look green moss color. About to on person clothes come. There's light cloud, and drizzle round the pavilion, in the dark yard, I wearily open a gate. I sit and look at the color of green moss, ready for people's clothing to pick up.
The mountains are cold and blue now and the autumn waters have run all day. By my thatch door, leaning on my staff, I listen to cicadas in the evening wind. Sunset lingers at the ferry, supper-smoke floats up from the houses. ..Oh, when shall I pledge the great Hermit again and sing a wild poem at Five Willows?
A red berry grows in the south country -- the boughs are full of them when spring arrives. Gather some, I pray, and fill your pockets -- These are the best forget-me-knots!
From ten thousand valleys the trees touch heaven; on a thousand peaks cuckoos are calling; and, after a night of mountain rain, from each summit come hundreds of silken cascades. ...If girls are asked in tribute the fibre they weave, or farmers quarrel over taro fields, preside as wisely as Wenweng did... Is fame to be only for the ancients?
My heart in middle age found the Way. And I came to dwell at the foot of this mountain. When the spirit moves, I wander alone amid beauty that is all for me... I will walk till the water checks my path, then sit and watch the rising clouds -- and someday meet an old wood-cutter and talk and laugh and never return.
The survival rate of the newly planted trees has reached 90 percent.
A traveler s thoughts in the night Wander in a thousand miles of dreams.
High beyond the thick wall a tower shines with sunset where peach and plum are blooming and the willow-cotton flies. You have heard in your office the court-bell of twilight; birds find perches, officials head for home. Your morning-jade will tinkle as you thread the golden palace; you will bring the word of Heaven from the closing gates at night. And I should serve there with you; but being full of years, I have taken off official robes and am resting from my troubles.
Narrow path sunless temple locust tree. Deep dark much green moss. Should gate except meet sweep. In case have hill monk come. A narrow, sunless path to the temple tree, deep and dark; abundant green moss. Wait by the gate when finished sweeping the yard, in case a monk should come down from the hill.
The woods have stored the rain, and slow comes the smoke as rice is cooked on faggots and carried to the fields; over the quiet marsh-land flies a white egret, and mango-birds are singing in the full summer trees... I have learned to watch in peace the mountain morning-glories, to eat split dewy sunflower-seeds under a bough of pine, to yield the post of honor to any boor at all... Why should I frighten sea gulls, even with a thought?
After rain the empty mountain stands autumnal in the evening, moonlight in its groves of pine, stones of crystal in its brooks. Bamboos whisper of washer-girls bound home, lotus-leaves yield before a fisher-boat -- and what does it matter that springtime has gone, while you are here, O Prince of Friends?
Hill at mutual escort stop. Day dusk shut wood door. Spring grass next year green. Prince offspring return not return. We bid each other farewell beside the hill, as day meets dusk, I close the wooden gate. Next year, in spring, there will be green grass again, but will my honored friend return?
Not know incense store temple. Few enter cloud peaks. Ancient trees no person path. Deep hills what place bell. Spring sound choke sheer rock. Sun color cold green pines. Dusk empty pool bend. Peace meditation control fierce dragon. I did not know the incense storing temple, I walked a few miles into the clouded peaks. No man on the path between the ancient trees, a bell rang somewhere deep among the hills. A spring sounded choked, running down steep rocks, the green pines chilled the sunlight's colored rays. Come dusk, at the bend of a deserted pool, through meditation I controlled passion's dragon.
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Alone now in a strange country, feeling myself a stranger, on this bright festival day I doubly pine for my kinsfolk. Far away, I know my brothers will be climbing the heights with dogwood sprays in their jackets, and one man missing!
How could sufferings be relieved through purification? To know the Path is to get lost at the ford. Indeed, sickness comes from worldly love And poverty begins with the pursuit of greed.
Old age think good quiet. Everything not concern heart. Self attend without great plan. Empty know return old forest. Pine wind blow undo belt. Hill moon light pluck qin. Gentleman ask end open reason. Fisherman song enter riverbank deep. Now in old age, I know the value of silence, the world's affairs no longer stir my heart. Turning to myself, I have no greater plan, all I can do is return to the forest of old. Wind from the pine trees blows my sash undone, the moon shines through the hills; I pluck the qin. You ask me why the world must rise and fall, fishermen sing on the steep banks of the river.
To be a stranger in a strange land: Whenever one feasts, one thinks of one's brother twice as much as before, There where my brother far away is ascending, The dogwood is flowering, and a man is missed.