To the Tune of Sheng cha zi
By Ouyang Xiu (1007-1072)
Last year on the Night of the Lanterns
The Flower market was bright as the day.
The moon climbed to the tip of the willow tree;
I awaited my love at the hour of dusk.
This year on the Night of the Lanterns
The moon and the flowers are as they were.
My love from last year is nowhere to be seen;
Tears drench the sleeves of my spring dress.
***
To the Tune of Lin jiang xian
By Su Shi (1036-1101)
On East Slope, I sobered up only to get drunk again.
When I came home, it seemed the third watch.
The servant boy was already snoring like thunder.
I pounded on the gate and got no response,
Then I leaned on my staff and listened to the river’s sound.
I have long deplored that this body is not my own.
When can I forget the restless striving?
The night is late, the wind still, ripples smooth.
In a little boat I shall put out from here,
Entrusting my remaining days to river and sea.
***
To the Tune of Die lian hua
By Su Shi
Flowers slip off and faded red, the green apricots are small.
When the swallow takes to its wings,
The green water round the homestead winds.
The catkins on the willow branches dwindle with the wind blowing,
Where to the ends of the earth is there no sweet grass?
Within the walls a wings, without a path;
Without the walls a wayfarer,
Within, the laughter of a fair maid.
The laughter grows faint; the sound dies away.
One who cares is vexed by one who cares not.
***
To the Tune of Shui diao tou ge
By Su Shi
[On Mid-autumn night of the year Bing-chen, I drank till dawn to intoxication, after which, thinking of Ziyou, I wrote this poem.]
Since when did the bright moon begin to shine?
With a cup of wine in hand I ask the deep blue sky.
I wonder what day it is
Tonight in Heaven.
I long to ride back with the wind,
But fear that the crystal halls and jade mansions
Would be too cold on high.
Rising to dance and frolic with my clear shadow—
How is it comparable with earthly joy?
Around the vermilion chamber,
Past the painted window,
The moon shines on the sleepless one.
The moon should have no ill feeling;
Why is it always full when men are separated?
Men have their joys and sorrows, as well as meetings and partings;
The moon has its bright and dim moments, as well as its waxing and waning.
Since the ancient time there has never been lasting perfection.
I only wish that we could both be healthy and well,
To share the sight of this fair beauty thousands of miles apart.
To the Tune of Yu mei ren
By Jiang Jie (fl. 13th. Century)
In youth I listened to the rain in houses of song,
The red candle casting a shadow on the bed curtains.
In my prime I listened to the rain in sojourning boats,
The river broad, the clouds low,
A stray bird wailing in the west wind.
And now, I listen to the rain in a monk’s hut,
My hair long since bespeckled.
Gaiety and sorrow, meeting and partings, all so unfeeling
I leave the rain to drip on the steps till dawn.
To th Tune of Su mu zhe
By Fan Zhongyan (989-1052)
Blue cloudy sky
Yellow leave ground
Autumnal waves
Under cold blue mist.
Hills cathch the setting sun, sky and water emerge.
Unfeeling, fragrant grasses grow
On and on past the setting sun.
Unhappy homesick soul
Obsessed with travel cares—
Night brings no relief
Except when pleasant dreams prolong the sleep.
Don’t look out alone when the moon shines—
The wine in your melancholy heart
Will turn to tears of longing.
***
To the Tune of Ti yin deng
By Fan Zhongyan
Last night I was reading the Chronicle of the Shu
And laughed at Cao Cao, Sun Quan, Liu Bei.
They tried every stratagem,
Used up their heart’s strength,
And all any one got was a third of the country.
Tote it up on your finger, reflect—
Was it worth one drink with Liu Ling?
Human life never lasts a hundred years.
Young, you are too foolish;
Old, you get decrepit.
There’s only few good years in between.
How can you stand to tie them to any empty them?
The highest rank, a thousand of gold—
Ask your white hair,
Can it make them retreat?
***
To the Tune of Wang hai chao
By Liu Yong (987-1503)
A scenic spot in the South-East,
The capital of the Three-Wu region,
Qian Tang has been bustling since ancient days.
There are misty willows and painted bridges;
There are saying blinds and green jade curtains
Amidst a hundred thoudand households in rows.
Trees soar into the sky around the dikes and the sands
Furious billows hurl up frost and snow.
The river stretches endlessly.
In the markets, pearls and gems are displayed.
Houses are full of people in silk,
Vying with each other in showing off their wealth.
Lakes adjoining lakes and peaks upon peaks are clear and beautiful.
With autumn cassia
And miles of lotus flowers
On sunny days, Qiang flutes pipe.
At night, water-caltrop songs are heard everywhere.
Happy are the old fishermen and the lotus girls.
Thousands of cavalrymen escort the lofty banners.
Tipsy, I listen to the lutes and the drums,
Chanting poetry and admiring the mist and clouds.
Some day, I will go back to the capital
And proudly describe this beautiful scene to my colleagues.
To the Tune of Su zhong qing
By Lu You (1125-1210)
Years ago, I traveled thousands of miles in search of honor,
Riding alone, I guarded the Liang-zhou frontier.
Where are my broken dreams of mountain passes and rivers?
Dust has darkened my sable coat,
The Tartars have not been defeated,
My hair has turned gray first,
My tears flow in vain.
Who would have thought that in this life
My heart should be with the Tian Mountains,
And my body grows old by the seashores!
To the Tune of Zi ye ge
By Li Yu (937-978)
How may one be spared of sorrow and regret of human life?
Why am I alone so overwhelmed,
What end to my grief?
To my former kingdom I return in dream again,
And awaken to find my tears already brimming.
With whom did I climb the high towers then?
How long will I remember our gazing in the autumn?
These things past are already drained and dead,
Much like moments from within a single dream.
***
To the Tune of Yu mei ren
Spring blooms, autumn moon, when will they end?
How many yesterdays have passed?
Last night, at my little pavilion, the east wind again!
Oh, when moon is bright, I can’t bear to look back my old kingdom.
Carved balustrades, marmoreal stairs no doubt will remain.
Only the once bright faces have changed.
Ask the sum of grief there’s to bear,
It’s just a river in full spring flood flowing east to sea.
To the Tune of Wu ling chun
By Li Qingzhao (1084-1151)
The wind has subsided—a fragrance of petals fallen;
Dust falls, I am to tired to comb my hair.
Things remain, but all is lost—now he is no more.
Tears choke my words.
I hear at Twin Brooks spring it’s still lovely;
How I’d ,too, love to go for a row on a light skiff.
I only fear at Twin Brooks my ‘grasshopper” boat
Wouldn’t be able to bear such a load of grief.
***
To the Tune of Sheng Sheng man
Searching, seeking, seeking, searching:
What comes of it but coldness and desolation,
A world of dreariness and misery, and stabbing pain!
As soon as one feels a bit of warmth
A sense of chill returns—so hard to have a quiet rest.
What avail two or three cups of tasteless wine
Against a violent evening wind?
Wild geese wing past at this of all hours,
And it suddenly dawns on me
That I’ve met them before.
Golden chrysanthemums in drift—
On the ground they lie strewn, faded, neglected.
How I loved to pick them, but now, for whom?
There is nothing for it but stay at the window.
Motionlss, alone—how the day drags before dusk fall?
Fine rain falling on the leaves of parasol-trees—
Drip, drip, drop, drop, in the deepening twilight.
Born of these scenes,
Can te world “sorrow” suffice
To convey all the melancholy feelings?
***
To the Tune of Lan Ling wang
By Zhoug Bangyan (1056-1121)
Willow’s shadow straights up,
Hanging threads branch out, a mist of green.
Along Emperor Sui’s embankment
How many times have I seen them
Cares the water, let fall the catkins, while sending friends off.
I climb here, gazing toward home:
Who could recognize a tired traveler in the capital?
Along a pavilion-dotted road,
In years come and gone,
Having broken off these soft branches by more than thousand feet.
Idly I search for familiar places:
Again, wine accompanies mournful music;
Again, a lamp shines upon farewell feast—
Pear blossoms and burned elm-leaves hasten the Cold-food festival.
Grieved by the wind’s coming like an arrow,
And the waves warmed with a boatman’s pole,
I look back from afar, and there are many post stages
The one I long for, in the farthest north of the world!