SPRINGThe willows near the roadside rest-house are soft with new-burst buds.I saunter along the river path,Listening to the occasional beating of the ferry drum.Clouds blow and separate,And between them I see the watch towersOf the distant city.They come in official coatsTo examine my books.Months go by;Years slide backwards and disappear.Musing,I shut my eyesAnd think of the road I have come,And of the Spring weedsChoking the fields of my house.SUMMERThe rain has stopped.The clouds drive in a new direction.The sand is so dry and hard that my wooden shoes ring upon itAs I walk.The flowers in the wind are very beautiful.A little stream quietly draws a lineThrough the sand.Every household is drunk with sacrificial wine,And every field is tall with milletAnd pale young wheat.I have not much business.It is a good day.I smile.I will write a poemOn all this sudden brightness.AUTUMNHoar-frost is falling,And the water of the river runs clear.The moon has not yet risen,But there are many stars.I hear the watch-dogsIn the near-by village.On the opposite bankAutumn lamps are burning in the windows.I am sick,Sick with all the illnesses there are.I can bear this cold no longer,And a great pity for my whole past lifeFills my mind.The boat has started at last.O be careful not to run foulOf the fishing-nets!WINTERI was lonely in the cold valleysWhere I was stationed.But I am still lonely,And when no one is nearI sigh.My gluttonous wife rails at meTo guard her bamboo shoots.My son is ill and neglects to waterThe flowers.Oh yes,Old red rice can satisfy hunger,And poor people can buy muddy, unstrained wineOn credit.But the pile of land-tax billsIs growing;I will go over and see my neighbour,Leaning on my staff.
SPRINGThe willows near the roadside rest-house are soft with new-burst buds.I saunter along the river path,Listening to the occasional beating of the ferry drum.Clouds blow and separate,And between them I see the watch towersOf the distant city.They come in official coatsTo examine my books.Months go by;Years slide backwards and disappear.Musing,I shut my eyesAnd think of the road I have come,And of the Spring weedsChoking the fields of my house.SUMMERThe rain has stopped.The clouds drive in a new direction.The sand is so dry and hard that my wooden shoes ring upon itAs I walk.The flowers in the wind are very beautiful.A little stream quietly draws a lineThrough the sand.Every household is drunk with sacrificial wine,And every field is tall with milletAnd pale young wheat.I have not much business.It is a good day.I smile.I will write a poemOn all this sudden brightness.AUTUMNHoar-frost is falling,And the water of the river runs clear.The moon has not yet risen,But there are many stars.I hear the watch-dogsIn the near-by village.On the opposite bankAutumn lamps are burning in the windows.I am sick,Sick with all the illnesses there are.I can bear this cold no longer,And a great pity for my whole past lifeFills my mind.The boat has started at last.O be careful not to run foulOf the fishing-nets!WINTERI was lonely in the cold valleysWhere I was stationed.But I am still lonely,And when no one is nearI sigh.My gluttonous wife rails at meTo guard her bamboo shoots.My son is ill and neglects to waterThe flowers.Oh yes,Old red rice can satisfy hunger,And poor people can buy muddy, unstrained wineOn credit.But the pile of land-tax billsIs growing;I will go over and see my neighbour,Leaning on my staff.
SPRING
SPRING
The willows near the roadside rest-house are soft with new-burst buds.I saunter along the river path,Listening to the occasional beating of the ferry drum.Clouds blow and separate,And between them I see the watch towersOf the distant city.They come in official coatsTo examine my books.Months go by;Years slide backwards and disappear.Musing,I shut my eyesAnd think of the road I have come,And of the Spring weedsChoking the fields of my house.
The willows near the roadside rest-house are soft with new-burst buds.
I saunter along the river path,
Listening to the occasional beating of the ferry drum.
Clouds blow and separate,
And between them I see the watch towers
Of the distant city.
They come in official coats
To examine my books.
Months go by;
Years slide backwards and disappear.
Musing,
I shut my eyes
And think of the road I have come,
And of the Spring weeds
Choking the fields of my house.
SUMMER
SUMMER
The rain has stopped.The clouds drive in a new direction.The sand is so dry and hard that my wooden shoes ring upon itAs I walk.The flowers in the wind are very beautiful.A little stream quietly draws a lineThrough the sand.Every household is drunk with sacrificial wine,And every field is tall with milletAnd pale young wheat.I have not much business.It is a good day.I smile.I will write a poemOn all this sudden brightness.
The rain has stopped.
The clouds drive in a new direction.
The sand is so dry and hard that my wooden shoes ring upon it
As I walk.
The flowers in the wind are very beautiful.
A little stream quietly draws a line
Through the sand.
Every household is drunk with sacrificial wine,
And every field is tall with millet
And pale young wheat.
I have not much business.
It is a good day.
I smile.
I will write a poem
On all this sudden brightness.
AUTUMN
AUTUMN
Hoar-frost is falling,And the water of the river runs clear.The moon has not yet risen,But there are many stars.I hear the watch-dogsIn the near-by village.On the opposite bankAutumn lamps are burning in the windows.I am sick,Sick with all the illnesses there are.I can bear this cold no longer,And a great pity for my whole past lifeFills my mind.The boat has started at last.O be careful not to run foulOf the fishing-nets!
Hoar-frost is falling,
And the water of the river runs clear.
The moon has not yet risen,
But there are many stars.
I hear the watch-dogs
In the near-by village.
On the opposite bank
Autumn lamps are burning in the windows.
I am sick,
Sick with all the illnesses there are.
I can bear this cold no longer,
And a great pity for my whole past life
Fills my mind.
The boat has started at last.
O be careful not to run foul
Of the fishing-nets!
WINTER
WINTER
I was lonely in the cold valleysWhere I was stationed.But I am still lonely,And when no one is nearI sigh.My gluttonous wife rails at meTo guard her bamboo shoots.My son is ill and neglects to waterThe flowers.Oh yes,Old red rice can satisfy hunger,And poor people can buy muddy, unstrained wineOn credit.But the pile of land-tax billsIs growing;I will go over and see my neighbour,Leaning on my staff.
I was lonely in the cold valleys
Where I was stationed.
But I am still lonely,
And when no one is near
I sigh.
My gluttonous wife rails at me
To guard her bamboo shoots.
My son is ill and neglects to water
The flowers.
Oh yes,
Old red rice can satisfy hunger,
And poor people can buy muddy, unstrained wine
On credit.
But the pile of land-tax bills
Is growing;
I will go over and see my neighbour,
Leaning on my staff.
Li Hai-ku, 19th Century