Heat and cold, dusk and dawn have crowded one upon the other;
Suddenly I find it is two years since I came to Chung-chou.
Through my closed doors I hear nothing but the morning and evening drum;
From my upper windows all I see is the ships that come and go.[1]
In vain the orioles tempt me with their song to stray beneath the flowering trees;
In vain the grasses lure me by their colour to sit beside the pond.
There is one thing and one alone I never tire of watching—
The spring river as it trickles over the stones and babbles past the rocks.
[1] “The Emperor Saga of Japan [reigned a.d. 810-23] one day quoted to his Minister, Ono no Takamura, the couplet:
‘Through my closed doors I hear nothing but the morning and evening drum;
From my upper windows in the distance I see ships that come and go.’
Takamura, thinking these were the Emperor’s own verses, said: ‘If I may venture to criticize an august composition, I would suggest that the phrase “in the distance” be altered.’ The Emperor was delighted, for he had purposely changed ‘all I see’ to ‘in the distance I see.’ At that time there was only one copy of Po Chü-i’s poems in Japan and the Emperor, to whom it belonged, had allowed no one to see it.”—From the Kōdanshō [twelfth century].
[40] AFTER COLLECTING THE AUTUMN TAXES
From my high castle I look at the town below
Where the natives of Pa cluster like a swarm of flies.
How can I govern these people and lead them aright?
I cannot even understand what they say.
But at least I am glad, now that the taxes are in,
To learn that in my province there is no discontent.
I fear its prosperity is not due to me
And was only caused by the year’s abundant crops,
The papers that lie on my desk are simple and few;
My house by the moat is leisurely and still.
In the autumn rain the berries fall from the eaves;
At the evening bell the birds return to the wood.
A broken sunlight quavers over the southern porch
Where I lie on my couch abandoned to idleness.