Tu Fu
Ballad of the Old Cypress
In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches Are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty Spans its rimy bark withstands
Full Moon
Above the tower a lone, twice-sized moon. On the cold river passing night-filled homes, It scatters restless gold across the waves. On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze. Empty peaks, silence: among sparse
Morning Rain
A slight rain comes, bathed in dawn light. I hear it among treetop leaves before mist Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and, Windblown, follows clouds away. Deepened Colors grace thatch homes for a
Spring Night in the Imperial Chancellery
Evening falls on palace walls shaded by flowering trees, with cry of birds Flying past on their way to roost. The stars quiver as they look down on the Myriad doors of the palace,
Dreaming of Li Po
After the separation of death one can eventually swallow back one’s grief, but The separation of the living is an endless, unappeasable anxiety. From Pestilent Chiang-nan no news arrives of the poor exile. That
Rain
Roads not yet glistening, rain slight, Broken clouds darken after thinning away. Where they drift, purple cliffs blacken. And beyond white birds blaze in flight. Sounds of cold-river rain grown familiar, Autumn sun casts
Gazing at the Sacred Peak
For all this, what is the mountain god like? An unending green of lands north and south: From ethereal beauty Creation distills There, yin and yang split dusk and dawn. Swelling clouds sweep by.
Restless Night
As bamboo chill drifts into the bedroom, Moonlight fills every corner of our Garden. Heavy dew beads and trickles. Stars suddenly there, sparse, next aren’t. Fireflies in dark flight flash. Waking Waterbirds begin calling,
On a Prospect of T'ai-shan
How is one to describe this king of mountains? Throught the whole of Ch’i and Lu one never loses sight of its greenness. In it the Creator has concentrated All that is numinous and
Thoughts of Li Po from the World's End
Here at the world’s end the cold winds are beginning to blow. What messages Have you for me, my master? When will the poor wandering goose arrive? The Rivers and lakes are swollen with
Moonlit Night
Tonight at Fu-chou, this moon she watches Alone in our room. And my little, far-off Children, too young to understand what keeps me Away, or even remember Chang’an. By now, Her hair will be
Day's End
Oxen and sheep were brought back down Long ago, and bramble gates closed. Over Mountains and rivers, far from my old garden, A windswept moon rises into clear night. Springs trickle down dark cliffs,
By the Lake
The old fellow from Shao-ling weeps with stifled sobs as he walks furtively by the bends of the Sepentine on a day in spring. In The waterside palaces the thousands of doors are locked.
Overnight at the Riverside Tower
Evening colors linger on mountain paths. Out beyond this study perched over River Gate, At the cliff’s edge, frail clouds stay All night. Among waves, a lone, shuddering Moon. As cranes trail off in
To the Recluse, Wei Pa
Often in this life of ours we resemble, in our failure to meet, the Shen and Shang constellations, one of which rises as the other one sets. What lucky Chance is it, then, that