SORROW DURING A CLEAR AUTUMN
BY LI T'AI-PO
I climb the hills of Chiu I—Oh-h-h-h-h! I look at the clear streams a long way off.
I see distinctly the three branches of the Hsiang River, I hear the sound of its swift current.
The water flows coldly; it is on its way to the lake.
The horizontal Autumn clouds hide the sky.
I go by the "Bird's Path." I calculate the distance to my old home. Oh-h-h-h-h!
I do not know how many thousand liit is from Ching to Wu.
It is the hour of the Western brightness, of the half-round sun.
The dazzle on the island is about to disappear;
The smooth lake is brilliantly white—from the moon?
Over the lake, the moon is rising.
I think of the moment of meeting—the long stretch of time before it.
I think of misty Yen and gaze at Yüeh.
The lotus-flowers have fallen—Oh-h-h-h-h! The river is the colour of Autumn.
The wind passes—passes. The night is endless—endless.
I would go to the end of the Dark Sea. How eagerly I desire this!
I think much of fishing for a leviathan from the Island of the Cold Sea.
There is no rod long enough to raise it.
I yield to the great waves, and my sorrow is increased.
I will return. I will go home. Oh-h-h-h-h!
Even for a little time, one cannot rely upon the World.
I long to pick the immortal herbs on the hill of P'êng.