Chinese Poet, Musician, Painter and Statesman
Wang Wei, aka Wang Youcheng
Chinese Poet, Musician, Painter and Statesman
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.
This is a rare opportunity and we hope our partners will make friends with as many IOC worldwide partners as possible to learn from their experiences and strategies in marketing, sales and services which are very helpful to the Olympic marketing of the 2008 Games, and we are confident that these experience will become a precious legacy for the Chinese enterprises after 2008.
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.
As a global sports event and an all-round social and cultural activity, the Olympic Games needs stable and sufficient power supply, while SG is one of the largest enterprises with rich experience and solid strength in the field.
I can never see my old friend again— the river Han still streams to the east I might question some old man of his place— river and hills—empty is Tsaichou.
Round a turn of the Qin Fortress winds the Wei River, and Yellow Mountain foot-hills enclose the Court of China; past the South Gate willows comes the Car of Many Bells on the upper Palace-Garden Road-a solid length of blossom; a Forbidden City roof holds two phoenixes in cloud; the foliage of spring shelters multitudes from rain; and now, when the heavens are propitious for action, here is our Emperor ready-no wasteful wanderer.
Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew has chilled the robe she will not change -- and she touches a silver lute all night, afraid to go back to her empty room.
As the years go by, give me but peace, freedom from ten thousand matters. I ask myself and always answer: What can be better than coming home? A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash, and my lute is bright with the mountain moon. You ask me about good and evil fortune?... Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing!
I cannot find the Monastery of Heaped Fragrance, miles up now into the clouds of the summit. There is no footpath through the ancient woods. Where did the bell sound, deep in the sound, deep in the mountain? The voice of the torrent gulps over jagged stones; sunlight hardly warms the bluish pines. As dusk deepens in these unfathomable mazes, I practice meditation to subdue the dragon of desire.
Rounding ten thousand turns through the mountains on a journey of less than thirty miles... Rapids hum over heaped rocks; but where light grows dim in the thick pines, the surface of an inlet sways with nut-horns and weeds are lush along the banks. ...Down in my heart I have always been as pure as this limpid water is... Oh, to remain on a broad flat rock and to cast a fishing-line forever!
Watching wild landscapes I forget distance and come to the water's edge.
Authorities were adding more trains for the travel peak, however, there were much more travelers compared with the limited addition of extra trains.
I dwell apart by the River Qi, where the Eastern wilds stretch far without hills. The sun darkens beyond the mulberry trees; the river glistens through the villages. Shepherd boys depart, gazing back to their hamlets; hunting dogs return following their men. When a man's at peace, what business does he have? I shut fast my rustic door throughout the day.
Seated alone by shadowy bamboos, I strum my lyre and laugh aloud; none know that I am here, deep in the woods; only the bright moon comes to shine on me.
We will set limits to the amount of bear bile to be extracted and the number of bears to be raised in the farms, in accordance with the needs of traditional Chinese medicine.
Autumn hill gather surplus shine. Fly bird chase before companion. Color green moment bright, sunset mist no fixed place. The autumn hill gathers remaining light, a flying bird chases its companion before. The green color is momentarily bright, sunset mist has no fixed place.
I feel less worried about thieves now because I feel safer on the train. Before, we sometimes encountered bad guys who caused trouble with us trying to extort our money during the long trips. Now there are hardly any of these guys.
Sitting alone in the hush of the bamboo grove I thrum my lute and whistle lingering notes. In the secrecy of the wood no one can hear -- Only the clear moon comes to shine on me.
Wei City morning rain dampens the light dust. By this inn, green, newly green willows. I urge you to drink another cup of wine; west of Yang Pass are no old friends.