Chapter 7

[63]The “First Emperor,” 259-210B.C.

[64]Wu Ti, 156-87B.C.

[65]= Hsü Shih. Giles, 1276.

[66]The burial-places of these two Emperors.

[67]Ibid.

[68]Lao-tzŭ, in the Tao Tē Ching.

The Two Red TowersNorth and south rise facing each other.I beg to ask, to whom do they belong?To the two Princes of the period Chēng Yüan.[69]The two Princes blew on their flutes and drew down fairies from the sky,Who carried them off through the Five Clouds, soaring away to Heaven.Their halls and houses, that they could not take with them,Were turned into Temples planted in the Dust of the World.In the tiring-rooms and dancers’ towers all is silent and still;Only the willows like dancers’ arms, and the pond like a mirror.When the flowers are falling at yellow twilight, when things are sad and hushed,One does not hear songs and flutes, but only chimes and bells.The Imperial Patent on the Temple doors is written in letters of gold;For nuns’ quarters and monks’ cells ample space is allowed.For green moss and bright moonlight—plenty of room provided;In a hovel opposite is a sick man who has hardly room to lie down.I remember once when at P’ing-yang they were building a great man’s houseHow it swallowed up the housing space of thousands of ordinary men.The Immortals[70]are leaving us, two by two, and their houses are turned into Temples;I begin to fear that the whole world will become a vast convent.

[69]785-805.

[70]Hsien Tsung’s brothers?

An old charcoal-sellerCutting wood and burning charcoal in the forests of the Southern Mountain.His face, stained with dust and ashes, has turned to the colour of smoke.The hair on his temples is streaked with gray: his ten fingers are black.The money he gets by selling charcoal, how far does it go?It is just enough to clothe his limbs and put food in his mouth.Although, alas, the coat on his back is a coat without lining.He hopes for the coming of cold weather, to send up the price of coal!Last night, outside the city,—a whole foot of snow;At dawn he drives the charcoal wagon along the frozen ruts.Oxen,—weary; man,—hungry: the sun, already high;Outside the Gate, to the south of the Market, at last they stop in the mud.Suddenly, a pair of prancing horsemen. Who can it be coming?A public official in a yellow coat and a boy in a white shirt.In their hands they hold a written warrant: on their tongues—the words of an order;They turn back the wagon and curse the oxen, leading them off to the north.A whole wagon of charcoal,More than a thousand pieces!If officials choose to take it away, the woodman may not complain.Half a piece of red silk and a single yard of damask,The Courtiers have tied to the oxen’s collar, as the priceof a wagon of coal!

I was going to the City to sell the herbs I had plucked;On the way I rested by some trees at the Blue Gate.Along the road there came a horseman riding;Whose face was pale with a strange look of dread.Friends and relations, waiting to say good-bye,Pressed at his side, but he did not dare to pause.I, in wonder, asked the people about meWho he was and what had happened to him.They told me this was a Privy CouncillorWhose grave duties were like the pivot of State.His food allowance was ten thousand cash;Three times a day the Emperor came to his house.Yesterday he was called to a meeting of Heroes:To-day he is banished to the country of Yai-chou.So always, the Counsellors of Kings;Favour and ruin changed between dawn and dusk!Green, green,—the grass of the Eastern Suburb;And amid the grass, a road that leads to the hills.Resting in peace among the white clouds,At last he has made a “coup” that cannot fail!

At Hsin-fēng an old man—four-score and eight;The hair on his head and the hair of his eyebrows—white as the new snow.Leaning on the shoulders of his great-grandchildren, he walks in front of the Inn;With his left arm he leans on their shoulders; his right arm is broken.I asked the old man how many years had passed since he broke his arm;I also asked the cause of the injury, how and why it happened?The old man said he was born and reared in the District of Hsin-fēng;At the time of his birth—a wise reign; no wars or discords.“Often I listened in the Pear-Tree Garden to the sound of flute and song;Naught I knew of banner and lance; nothing of arrow or bow.Then came the wars of T’ien-pao[71]and the great levy of men;Of three men in each house,—one man was taken.And those to whom the lot fell, where were they taken to?Five months’ journey, a thousand miles—away to Yün-nan.We heard it said that in Yün-nan there flows the Lu River;As the flowers fall from the pepper-trees, poisonous vapours rise.When the great army waded across, the water seethed like a cauldron;When barely ten had entered the water, two or three were dead.To the north of my village, to the south of my village the sound of weeping and wailing.Children parting from fathers and mothers; husbands parting from wives.Everyone says that in expeditions against the Min tribesOf a million men who are sent out, not one returns.I, that am old, was then twenty-four;My name and fore-name were written down in the rolls of the Board of War.In the depth of the night not daring to let any one knowI secretly took a huge stone and dashed it against my arm.For drawing the bow and waving the banner now wholly unfit;I knew henceforward I should not be sent to fight in Yün-nan.Bones broken and sinews wounded could not fail to hurt;I was ready enough to bear pain, if only I got back home.My arm—broken ever since; it was sixty years ago.One limb, although destroyed,—whole body safe!But even now on winter nights when the wind and rain blowFrom evening on till day’s dawn I cannot sleep for pain.Not sleeping for painIs a small thing to bear,Compared with the joy of being alive when all the rest are dead.For otherwise, years ago, at the ford of Lu RiverMy body would have died and my soul hovered by the bones that no one gathered.A ghost, I’d have wandered in Yün-nan, always looking for home.Over the graves of ten thousand soldiers, mournfully hovering.”So the old man spoke.And I bid you listen to his wordsHave you not heardThat the Prime Minister of K’ai-yüan,[72]Sung K’ai-fu,Did not reward frontier exploits, lest a spirit of aggression should prevail?And have you not heardThat the Prime Minister of T’ien-Pao, Yang Kuo-chung[73]Desiring to win imperial favour, started a frontier war?But long before he could win the war, people had lost their temper;Ask the man with the broken arm in the village of Hsin-fēng?

[71]A.D.742-755.

[72]713-742.

[73]Cousin of the notorious mistress of Ming-huang, Yang Kuei-fei.

White billows and huge waves block the river crossing;Wherever I go, danger and difficulty; whatever I do, failure.Just as in my worldly career I wander and lose the road,So when I come to the river crossing, I am stopped by contrary winds.Of fishes and prawns sodden in the rain the smell fills my nostrils;With the stings of insects that come with the fog, my whole body is sore.I am growing old, time flies, and my short span runs out.While I sit in a boat at Chiu-k’ou, wasting ten days!

I take your poems in my hand and read them beside the candle;The poems are finished: the candle is low: dawn not yet come.With sore eyes by the guttering candle still I sit in the dark,Listening to waves that, driven by the wind, strike the prow of the ship.

A bend of the river brings into view two triumphal arches;That is the gate in the western wall of the suburbs of Hsün-yang.I have still to travel in my solitary boat three or four leagues—By misty waters and rainy sands, while the yellow dusk thickens.

We are almost come to Hsün-yang: how my thoughts are stirredAs we pass to the south of Yü Liang’s[74]tower and the east of P’ēn Port.The forest trees are leafless and withered,—after the mountain rain;The roofs of the houses are hidden low among the river mists.The horses, fed on water grass, are too weak to carry their load;The cottage walls of wattle and thatch let the wind blow on one’s bed.In the distance I see red-wheeled coaches driving from the town-gate;They have taken the trouble, these civil people, to meet their new Prefect!

[74]DiedA.D.340. Giles, 2526.

There is no one among men that has not a special failing:And my failing consists in writing verses.I have broken away from the thousand ties of life:But this infirmity still remains behind.Each time that I look at a fine landscape:Each time that I meet a loved friend,I raise my voice and recite a stanza of poetryAnd am glad as though a God had crossed my path.Ever since the day I was banished to Hsün-yangHalf my time I have lived among the hills.And often, when I have finished a new poem,Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.I lean my body on the banks of white stone:I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch.My mad singing startles the valleys and hills:The apes and birds all come to peep.Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world,I choose a place that is unfrequented by men.

At Nine Rivers,[75]in the tenth year,[76]in winter,—heavy snow;The river-water covered with ice and the forests broken with their load.[77]The birds of the air, hungry and cold, went flying east and west;And with them flew a migrant “yen,” loudly clamouring for food.Among the snow it pecked for grass; and rested on the surface of the ice:It tried with its wings to scale the sky; but its tired flight was slow.The boys of the river spread a net and caught the bird as it flew;They took it in their hands to the city-market and sold it there alive.I that was once a man of the North am now an exile here:Bird and man, in their different kind, are each strangers in the south.And because the sight of an exiled bird wounded an exile’s heart,I paid your ransom and set you free, and you flew away to the clouds.Yen, Yen, flying to the clouds, tell me, whither shall you go?Of all things I bid you, do not fly to the land of the north-westIn Huai-hsi there are rebel bands[78]that have not been subdued;And a thousand thousand armoured men have long been camped in war.The official army and the rebel army have grown old in their opposite trenches;The soldier’s rations have grown so small, they’ll be glad of even you.The brave boys, in their hungry plight, will shoot you and eat your flesh;They will pluck from your body those long feathers and make them into arrow-wings!

[75]Kiukiang, the poet’s place of exile.

[76]A.D.815. His first winter at Kiukiang.

[77]By the weight of snow.

[78]The revolt of Wu Yüan-chi.

You, so bravely splashing reds and blues!Just whenIam getting wrinkled and old.Why should you waste the moments of inspirationTracing the withered limbs of a sick man?Tall, tall is the Palace of Ch’i-lin;[79]But my deeds have not been frescoed on its walls.Minutely limned on a foot of painting silk—What can I do with a portrait such asthat?

[79]One of the “Record Offices” of the T’ang dynasty, where meritorious deeds were illustrated on the walls.

Yesterday I heard that such-a-one was gone;This morning they tell me that so-and-so is dead.Of friends and acquaintances more than two-thirdsHave suffered change and passed to the Land of Ghosts.Those that are gone I shall not see again;They, alas, are for ever finished and done.Those that are left,—where are they now?They are all scattered,—a thousand miles away.Those I have known and loved through all my life,On the fingers of my hand—how many do I count?Only the prefects of T’ung, Kuo and LiAnd Fēng Province—just those four.[80]Longing for each other we are all grown gray;Through the Fleeting World rolled like a wave in the stream.Alas that the feasts and frolics of old daysHave withered and vanished, bringing us to this!When shall we meet and drink a cup of wineAnd laughing gaze into each other’s eyes?

[80]Yüan Chēn (d. 831), Ts’ui Hsüan-liang (d. 833), Liu Yü-hsi (d. 842), and Li Chien (d. 821).

Up and up, the Incense-burner Peak!In my heart is stored what my eyes and ears perceived.All the year—detained by official business;To-day at last I got a chance to go.Grasping the creepers, I clung to dangerous rocks;My hands and feet—weary with groping for hold.There came with me three or four friends,But two friends dared not go further.At last we reached the topmost crest of the Peak;My eyes were blinded, my soul rocked and reeled.The chasm beneath me—ten thousand feet;The ground I stood on, only a foot wide.If you have not exhausted the scope of seeing and hearing,How can you realize the wideness of the world?The waters of the River looked narrow as a ribbon,P’ēn Castle smaller than a man’s fist.How it clings, the dust of the world’s halter!It chokes my limbs: I cannot shake it away.Thinking of retirement,[81]I heaved an envious sigh,Then, with lowered head, came back to the Ants’ Nest.

[81]I.e., retirement from office.

My new Province is a land of bamboo-groves:Their shoots in spring fill the valleys and hills.The mountain woodman cuts an armful of themAnd brings them down to sell at the early market.Things are cheap in proportion as they are common;For two farthings, I buy a whole bundle.I put the shoots in a great earthen potAnd heat them up along with boiling rice.The purple nodules broken,—like an old brocade;The white skin opened,—like new pearls.Now every day I eat them recklessly;For a long time I have not touched meat.All the time I was living at Lo-yangThey could not give me enough to suit my taste,Now I can have as many shoots as I please;For each breath of the south-wind makes a new bamboo!

Sent as a present from Annam—A red cockatoo.Coloured like the peach-tree blossom,Speaking with the speech of men.And they did to it what is always doneTo the learned and eloquent.They took a cage with stout barsAnd shut it up inside.

After lunch—one short nap:On waking up—two cups of tea.Raising my head, I see the sun’s lightOnce again slanting to the south-west.Those who are happy regret the shortness of the day;Those who are sad tire of the year’s sloth.But those whose hearts are devoid of joy or sadnessJust go on living, regardless of “short” or “long.”

Written in 818, when he was being towed up the rapids to Chung-chou.

Above, a mountain ten thousand feet high:Below, a river a thousand fathoms deep.A strip of green, walled by cliffs of stone:Wide enough for the passage of a single reed.[82]At Chü-t’ang a straight cleft yawns:At Yen-yü islands block the stream.Long before night the walls are black with dusk;Without wind white waves rise.The big rocks are like a flat sword:The little rocks resemble ivory tusks.We are stuck fast and cannot move a step.How much the less, three hundred miles?[83]Frail and slender, the twisted-bamboo rope:Weak, the dangerous hold of the towers’ feet.A single slip—the whole convoy lost:Andmylife hangs onthisthread!I have heard a saying “He that has an upright heartShall walk scathless through the lands of Man and Mo.”[84]How can I believe that since the world beganIn every shipwreck none have drowned but rogues?And how can I, born in evil days[85]And fresh from failure,[86]ask a kindness of Fate?Often I fear that these un-talented limbsWill be laid at last in an un-named grave!

We are stuck fast and cannot move a step.How much the less, three hundred miles?[83]Frail and slender, the twisted-bamboo rope:Weak, the dangerous hold of the towers’ feet.A single slip—the whole convoy lost:Andmylife hangs onthisthread!I have heard a saying “He that has an upright heartShall walk scathless through the lands of Man and Mo.”[84]How can I believe that since the world beganIn every shipwreck none have drowned but rogues?And how can I, born in evil days[85]And fresh from failure,[86]ask a kindness of Fate?Often I fear that these un-talented limbsWill be laid at last in an un-named grave!

[82]See Odes, v, 7.

[83]The distance to Chung-chou.

[84]Dangerous savages.

[85]Of civil war.

[86]Alluding to his renewed banishment.

A remote place in the mountains of Pa (Ssech’uan)

Before this, when I was stationed at Hsün-yang,Already I regretted the fewness of friends and guests.Suddenly, suddenly,—bearing a stricken heartI left the gates, with nothing to comfort me.Henceforward,—relegated to deep seclusionIn a bottomless gorge, flanked by precipitous mountains,Five months on end the passage of boats is stoppedBy the piled billows that toss and leap like colts.The inhabitants of Pa resemble wild apes;Fierce and lusty, they fill the mountains and prairies.Among such as these I cannot hope for friendsAnd am pleased with anyone who is even remotely human!

Written when Governor of Chung-Chou

I took money and bought flowering treesAnd planted them out on the bank to the east of the Keep.I simply bought whatever had most blooms,Not caring whether peach, apricot, or plum.A hundred fruits, all mixed up together;A thousand branches, flowering in due rotation.Each has its season coming early or late;But to all alike the fertile soil is kind.The red flowers hang like a heavy mist;The white flowers gleam like a fall of snow.The wandering bees cannot bear to leave them;The sweet birds also come there to roost.In front there flows an ever-running stream;Beneath there is built a little flat terrace.Sometimes I sweep the flagstones of the terrace;Sometimes, in the wind, I raise my cup and drink.The flower-branches screen my head from the sun;The flower-buds fall down into my lap.Alone drinking, alone singing my songsI do not notice that the moon is level with the steps.The people of Pa do not care for flowers;All the spring no one has come to look.But their Governor General, alone with his cup of wineSits till evening and will not move from the place!

Writtencirca820

My niece, who is six years old, is called “Miss Tortoise”;My daughter of three,—little “Summer Dress.”One is beginning to learn to joke and talk;The other can already recite poems and songs.At morning they play clinging about my feet;At night they sleep pillowed against my dress.Why, children, did you reach the world so late,Coming to me just when my years are spent?Young things draw our feelings to them;Old people easily give their hearts.The sweetest vintage at last turns sour;The full moon in the end begins to wane.And so with men the bonds of love and affectionSoon may change to a load of sorrow and care.But all the world is bound by love’s ties;Why did I think that I alone should escape?

Trees growing—right in front of my window;The trees are high and the leaves grow thick.Sad alas! the distant mountain viewObscured by this, dimly shows between.One morning I took knife and axe;With my own hand I lopped the branches off.Ten thousand leaves fall about my head;A thousand hills came before my eyes.Suddenly, as when clouds or mists breakAnd straight through, the blue sky appears;Again, like the face of a friend one has lovedSeen at last after an age of parting.First there came a gentle wind blowing;One by one the birds flew back to the tree.To ease my mind I gazed to the South East;As my eyes wandered, my thoughts went far away.Of men there is none that has not some preference;Of things there is none but mixes good with ill.It was not that I did not love the tender branches;But better still,—to see the green hills!

I have been ill so long that I do not count the days;At the southern window, evening—and again evening.Sadly chirping in the grasses under my eavesThe winter sparrows morning and evening sing.By an effort I rise and lean heavily on my bed;Tottering I step towards the door of the courtyard.By chance I meet a friend who is coming to see me;Just as if I had gone specially to meet him.They took my couch and placed it in the setting sun;They spread my rug and I leaned on the balcony-pillar.Tranquil talk was better than any medicine;Gradually the feelings came back to my numbed heart.

Little sleeping and much grieving,—the travellerRises at midnight and looks back towards home.The sands are bright with moonlight that joins the shores;The sail is white with dew that has covered the boat.Nearing the sea, the river grows broader and broader:Approaching autumn,—the nights longer and longer.Thirty times we have slept amid mists and waves,And still we have not reached Hang-chow!

I grew up at Jung-yang;I was still young when I left.On and on,—forty years passedTill again I stayed for the night at Jung-yang.When I went away, I was only eleven or twelve;This year I am turned fifty-six.Yet thinking back to the times of my childish games,Whole and undimmed, still they rise before me.The old houses have all disappeared;Down in the village none of my people are left.It is not only that streets and buildings have changed;But steep is level and level changed to steep!Alone unchanged, the waters of Ch’iu and YuPassionless,—flow in their old course.

While on the road to his new province, Hang-chow, in 822, he sends a silver spoon to his niece A-kuei, whom he had been obliged to leave behind with her nurse, old Mrs. Ts’ao.

To distant service my heart is well accustomed;When I left home, it wasn’tthatwhich was difficultBut because I had to leave Miss Kuei at home—For this it was that tears filled my eyes.Little girls ought to be daintily fed:Mrs. Ts’ao, please see to this!That’s why I’ve packed and sent a silver spoon;You will think of me and eat up your food nicely!

Long ago to a white-haired gentlemanYou made the present of a black gauze hat.The gauze hat still sits on my head;But you already are gone to the Nether Springs.The thing is old, but still fit to wear;The man is gone and will never be seen again.Out on the hill the moon is shining to-nightAnd the trees on your tomb are swayed by the autumn wind.

That so many of the poor should suffer from cold what can we do to prevent?To bring warmth to a single body is not much use.I wish I had a big rug ten thousand feet long,Which at one time could cover up every inch of the City.

Back to Index Next