Classic Poem

An unknown guest in passing
stopped on Mount Star and said:
“Listen, Master of Mist Settling Hall
and Resting Shadow Arbor,
despite the many pleasures
life held,
why did you prefer to them all
this mountain, this water?
What made you choose
the solitude of hills and streams?”
Sweeping away the pine needles,
setting a cushion on a bamboo couch,
I casually climb into the seat
and view the four quarters.
Floating clouds at the sky's edge come and go
nestling on Auspicious Stone Terrace;
their flying motion and gentle gestures
resemble our host.
White waves in the blue stream
rim the arbor;
as if someone stitched and spread
the cloud brocade of the Weaver Star,
the water rushes
in endless patterns.
On other mountains without a calendar
who would know the year's cycle?
Here every subtle change of the seasons
unrolls before us.
Whether you hear or see,
this is truly the land of tanscendents.
The morning sun at the window with plum trees—
the fragrance of blossoms wakes me.
Who says there is nothing
to keep an old hermit busy?
In the sunny spot under the hedges
I sow melons,
tie the vines, support them;
when rain nurtures the plants,
I think of the old tale
of the Blue Gate.
Tying my straw sandals,
grasping a bamboo staff,
I follow the peach blossom causeway
over to Fragrant Grass Islet.
As I stroll to the West Brook,
the stone screen painted by nature
in the bright moonlit mirror
accompanies me.
Why seek Peach Blossom Spring?
Earthly paradise is here.
The casual south wind
scatters green shade;
a faithful cuckoo,
where did he come from?
I wake from dozing
on the pillow of ancient worthies
and see the hanging wet balcony
floating on the water.
With my kudzu cap aslant
and my hemp smock tucked into my belt,
I go nearer
to watch the frolicking fishes.
After the rain overnight,
here and there, red and white lotus;
their fragrance rises into the still sky
filling myriad hills.
As though I had met with Chou Tun-i
and questioned him on the Ultimate Secret—
as though an immortal Great Unique
had shown me the Jade Letters—
I look across Cormorant Rock
by Purple Forbidden Shallows;
a tall pine tree screens the sun,
I sit on the stone path.
In the world of man it is the sixth month;
here it is autumn.
A duck bobbing on the limpid stream
moves to a white sandbar,
makes friends with the gulls,
and dozes away.
Free and at leisure,
it resembles our host.
At the fourth watch the frost moon rises
over the phoenix trees.
Thousand cliffs, ten thousand ravines,
could they be brighter by daylight?
Who moved the Crystal Palace
from Huchou?
Did I jump over the Milky Way
and climb into the Moon Palace?
Leaving behind a pair of old pines
on the fishing terrace,
I let my boat drift downstream
as it pleases,
passing pink knotweeds
and a sandbar of white cloverfern.
When did we reach
the Dragon Pool below Jade Ring Hall?
Moved by a sunset glow,
cowherds
in green pastures by the crystal river
blow on their pipes.
They might awaken the dragon
sunk deep at the pool's bottom.
Emerging from mists and ripples,
cranes might abandon their nests
and soar into midair.
Su Shih in his poem on Red Cliff
praises the seventh month;
but why do people cherish
the mid-autumn moon?
When thin clouds part,
and waves grow still,
the rising moon
anchors herself in a pine branch.
How extravagant! Li Po drowned
trying to scoop up the reflected moon.
North winds sweep away
the heaped leaves on empty hills,
marshal the clouds,
drive the snow.
The Creator loves to fashion—
he makes snowflowers of white jade,
devises thousands of trees and forests.
The shallows in front freeze over.
A monk crosses over
the one-log bridge aslant,
a staff on his shoulder.
What temple are you headed for?
Don't boast of
the recluse's riches
lest some find out
this lustrous, hidden world.
Alone, deep in the mountains,
with the classics, pile on pile,
I think of the men
of all times:
many were sages,
many were heroes.
Heavenly intent goes
into the making of men.
Yet fortunes
rise and fall;
chance seems unknowable,
and sadness deep.
Why did Hsü Yu on Mount Chi
cleanse his innocent ears?
When he threw away his last gourd,
his integrity became even nobler.
Man's mind is like his face—
new each time one sees it.
Worldly affairs are like clouds—
how perilous they are!
The wine made yesterday
must be ready:
passing the cup back and forth,
let's pour more wine till we're tired.
Then our hearts will open,
the net of sorrow unravel to nothing.
String the black zither
and pluck “Wind in the Pines.”
We have all forgotten
Who is host and who is guest.
The crane flying through the vast sky
is the true immortal in this valley—
I must have met him
on the Jasper Terrace under the moon.
The guest addresses the host with a word:
“You, sir, you alone are immortal.”