From ten thousand valleys the trees touch heaven;
On a thousand peaks cuckoos are calling;
And, after a night of mountain rain,
From each summit come hundreds of silken cascades.
... If girls are asked in tribute the fibre they weave,
Or farmers quarrel over taro fields,
Preside as wisely as Wên-wêng did. . . .
Is fame to be only for the ancients?

The flow-tide ebbs back to sea.
My friend returned to Wu from banishment.
I asked him about the sorrows of exile.
His tears fell like pearls of the South Sea.

Shake not your crown, if perfumed;
Nor flap your garment, if spiced with lan!
It is better to hide the chaste soul's radiance,
The world hates a thing too pure.

There goes the fisherman of Tsang-lang.
Await me, old man, I will go with you.

It is autumn near and far.
Outside the gate all the hills are barren.
A white cloud, my old friend,
Beckons me from far empyreal space.
Pray, when will Luh Chen-ho come back —
He who has flown west like a crane?

After rain the empty mountain
Stands autumnal in the evening,
Moonlight in its groves of pine,
Stones of crystal in its brooks.
Bamboos whisper of washer-girls bound home,
Lotus-leaves yield before a fisher-boat —
And what does it matter that springtime has gone,
While you are here, O Prince of Friends?

Is life then short.? This dream of mine
Seems long enough that now has faded.

I always ask
At least three trainmen
If this is the right train for where I am going.
Even then,
I hardly believe them.

I've seen the bogie's veritable
Shape : — it's merely withered grass.

Sometimes when I am writing poetry
I have an uncomfortable feeling
That I am about to be
Interrupted
By a flash of prose.

Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew
Has chilled the robe she will not change —
And she touches a silver lute all night,
Afraid to go back to her empty room.