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The Poet Li Po
27
When I woke up, I blinked at the garden lawn;
A lonely bird was singing amid the flowers.
I asked myself, had the day been wet or fine?
The Spring wind was telling the mango-bird.
Moved by its song, I soon began to sigh,
And as wine was there, I filled my own cup.
Wildly singing, I waited for the moon to rise,
When my song was over, all my senses had gone.
A lonely bird was singing amid the flowers.
I asked myself, had the day been wet or fine?
The Spring wind was telling the mango-bird.
Moved by its song, I soon began to sigh,
And as wine was there, I filled my own cup.
Wildly singing, I waited for the moon to rise,
When my song was over, all my senses had gone.
XXIII. 13.
Self-Abandonment
I sat drinking and did not notice the dusk,
Till falling petals filled the folds of my dress.
Drunken I rose and walked to the moonlit stream;
The birds were gone, and men also few.
Till falling petals filled the folds of my dress.
Drunken I rose and walked to the moonlit stream;
The birds were gone, and men also few.
XXV. 1.
To Tan Ch'iu
My friend is lodging high in the Eastern Range,
Dearly loving the beauty of valleys and hills.
At Green Spring he lies in the empty woods;
And is still asleep when the sun shines on high.
A pine-tree wind dusts his sleeves and coat;
A pebbly stream cleans his heart and ears.
I envy you, who far from strife and talk
Are high-propped on a pillow of blue cloud.
Dearly loving the beauty of valleys and hills.
At Green Spring he lies in the empty woods;
And is still asleep when the sun shines on high.
A pine-tree wind dusts his sleeves and coat;
A pebbly stream cleans his heart and ears.
I envy you, who far from strife and talk
Are high-propped on a pillow of blue cloud.
XXX. 8.
Clearing up at Dawn
The fields are chill; the sparse rain has stopped;
The colours of Spring teem on every side.
With leaping fish the blue pond is full;
With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.
The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks;
The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist.
By the bamboo stream the last fragments of cloud
Blown by the wind slowly scatter away.
The colours of Spring teem on every side.
With leaping fish the blue pond is full;
With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.
The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks;
The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist.
By the bamboo stream the last fragments of cloud
Blown by the wind slowly scatter away.
[Many of the above poems have been translated before, in some cases by three or four different hands. But III. 4, III. 26, XV. 2, and XXIII. 9 are, so far as I know, translated for the first time.]
