[89] _I.e._, separate poems, essays, etc.
[90] Who was obliged to abandon his only child on the roadside.
[91] Who rescued a foundling.
ON BEING SIXTY
Addressed to Liu Meng-te, who had asked for a poem. He was the same age as Po Chu-i.
Between thirty and forty, one is distracted by the Five Lusts; Between seventy and eighty, one is a prey to a hundred diseases.
But from fifty to sixty one is free from all ills; Calm and still--the heart enjoys rest.
I have put behind me Love and Greed; I have done with Profit and Fame; I am still short of illness and decay and far from decrepit age.
Strength of limb I still possess to seek the rivers and hills; Still my heart has spirit enough to listen to flutes and strings.
At leisure I open new wine and taste several cups; Drunken I recall old poems and sing a whole volume.
Meng-te has asked for a poem and herewith I exhort him Not to complain of three-score, "the time of obedient ears."[92]
[92] Confucius said that it was not till _sixty_ that "his ears obeyed him." This age was therefore called "the time of obedient ears."
CLIMBING THE TERRACE OF KUAN-YIN AND LOOKING AT THE CITY
Hundreds of houses, thousands of houses,--like a chess-board.
The twelve streets like a field planted with rows of cabbage.
In the distance perceptible, dim, dim--the fire of approaching dawn; And a single row of stars lying to the west of the Five Gates.
CLIMBING THE LING YING TERRACE AND LOOKING NORTH
Mounting on high I begin to realize the smallness of Man's Domain; Gazing into distance I begin to know the vanity of the Carnal World.
I turn my head and hurry home--back to the Court and Market, A single grain of rice falling--into the Great Barn.
GOING TO THE MOUNTAINS WITH A LITTLE DANCING GIRL, AGED FIFTEEN
Written when the poet was about sixty-five
Two top-knots not yet plaited into one.
Of thirty years--just beyond half.
You who are really a lady of silks and satins Are now become my hill and stream companion!
At the spring fountains together we splash and play: On the lovely trees together we climb and sport.
Her cheeks grow rosy, as she quickens her sleeve-dancing: Her brows grow sad, as she slows her song's tune.
Don't go singing the Song of the Willow Branches,[93]
When there's no one here with a heart for you to break!
[93] A plaintive love-song, to which Po Chu-i had himself written words.
DREAMING OF YuAN CHEN
This was written eight years after Yuan Chen's death, when Po-Chu-i was sixty-eight.
At night you came and took my hand and we wandered together in my dream; When I woke in the morning there was no one to stop the tears that fell on my handkerchief.
On the banks of the Ch'ang my aged body three times[94] has passed through sickness; At Hsien-yang[95] to the grasses on your grave eight times has autumn come.
You lie buried beneath the springs and your bones are mingled with the clay.
I--lodging in the world of men; my hair white as snow.
A-wei and Han-lang[96] both followed in their turn; Among the shadows of the Terrace of Night did you know them or not?
[94] Since you died.
[95] Near Ch'ang-an, modern Si-ngan-fu.
[96] Affectionate names of Li Chien and Ts'ui Hsuan-liang.
A DREAM OF MOUNTAINEERING
Written when he was over seventy
At night, in my dream, I stoutly climbed a mountain.
Going out alone with my staff of holly-wood.
A thousand crags, a hundred hundred valleys-- In my dream-journey none were unexplored And all the while my feet never grew tired And my step was as strong as in my young days.
Can it be that when the mind travels backward The body also returns to its old state?
And can it be, as between body and soul, That the body may languish, while the soul is still strong?
Soul and body--both are vanities: Dreaming and waking--both alike unreal.
In the day my feet are palsied and tottering; In the night my steps go striding over the hills.
As day and night are divided in equal parts-- Between the two, I _get_ as much as I _lose_.
EASE
Congratulating himself on the comforts of his life after his retirement from office. Written _circa_ 844.
Lined coat, warm cap and easy felt slippers, In the little tower, at the low window, sitting over the sunken brazier.
Body at rest, heart at peace; no need to rise early.
I wonder if the courtiers at the Western Capital know of these things, or not?
ON HEARING SOMEONE SING A POEM BY YuAN CHEN
Written long after Chen's death
No new poems his brush will trace: Even his fame is dead.
His old poems are deep in dust At the bottom of boxes and cupboards.
Once lately, when someone was singing, Suddenly I heard a verse-- Before I had time to catch the words A pain had stabbed my heart.
THE PHILOSOPHERS