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.