The Good Book (29 page)

‘High officials do not sleep in a barn.’

21

Can the single cup of wine we drank this morning

Have made my heart so glad?

This is a joy that comes only from within,

Which those who witness will never understand.

I have two brothers

And grieved bitterly that both were far away;

This spring, back through the high gorges of the river

I came to them safely, ten thousand leagues.

I am freed at last from the thoughts that grieved me,

As though a sword had cut a rope from my neck.

Limbs grow light when the heart has shed its care;

Suddenly I seem to be flying, for very joy,

To the sun-painted clouds and the sky.

22

My friend, drink your cup of wine,

Then set it down and listen to what I say.

Do not sigh that your home is far away,

Do not mind that success seems far away.

Only hope that as long as life lasts

You and I may never be forced to part.

23

There is silence over the peaks.

In all the treetops there is peace;

Hardly a breath of wind.

The birds are silent and still.

Nothing moves, not a dry leaf

Stirs on the grass,

Not a single soft plume of thistle

Floats.

Only wait: soon

You too will rest.

24

Below the hall, beside the steps,

The pine trees grow in irregular array,

Without order, some tall and some low,

The tallest ten roods tall, the lowest ten feet low.

They are like wild things; no one knows who planted them.

They touch the walls of my blue-tiled house,

Their roots are deep in the terrace of white sand.

Every night they are visited by wind and moonlight,

Rain or fine they are free from dust.

In the autumn gales they whisper a private tune,

In the summer sunlight they yield a cool shade.

At the height of spring the fine evening rain

Decorates their leaves with hanging pearls.

At the year’s end, the time of great snow

Burdens their branches with glittering jade.

When the people heard I had bought this house

They mocked, and called me mad

To move all my family here for the sake of a few pines.

And still I hurry to business, my belt buckled

And my sandals covered in dust;

And from time to time my heart reproves me

That I am not fit to be master of my own pine trees,

Who teach their lessons in each season of the year.

25

We had ridden long and were still far from the inn;

My eyes grew dim, and for some moments I dozed.

In my right hand the whip dangled,

In my left hand the reins slackened.

Suddenly I woke and turned to my groom,

Who told me that I slept for ten paces.

Body and mind had changed places;

Swift and slow had turned to their contraries.

For those few steps as I swayed in the saddle

My dream had lasted through aeons of time:

True indeed is the saying of the wise,

That a thousand years are but a moment of sleep.

26

The sun’s early light shines on my house-beams,

The first banging of open doors

Echoes like a drumroll in the courtyard.

The dog lies curled on the stone step

Because the ground is still wet with dew.

On my window sill the birds chatter

To announce that the day is fine.

With lingering fumes of last night’s wine

My head is still heavy;

With new doffing of winter garments

My body feels light and free.

27

I sought the hermit among the mountain pines

And by the brook that rises there.

I asked a child fishing on its bank;

He said, ‘My master has gone to seek for herbs,

He is on this mountain, certainly,

But you cannot see him because of the clouds.’

28

By woods and water, whose houses are these

With high gates and wide-stretching meadows?

From their blue gables gilded fishes hang,

By their red pillars carved courses run.

Their spring arbours, warm with caged mist,

Their autumn yards cold with moonlight,

To the stem of the pine tree amber beads cling;

The willow oozes ruby-red drops.

Who are the masters of these estates?

They are state officers, counsellors and courtiers;

All their lives they have never seen what they own,

But know their possessions from a bailiff’s map only.

29

The western wind has just begun to blow,

Yet already the first leaf flies from the bough.

On the drying paths I walk in my summer shoes,

In the first touch of cold I don my quilted coat.

Through shallow ditches the floods seep away,

Through sparse osiers a slanting light gleams.

In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss,

The garden-boy is leading the geese home.

30

I have finished with burdens and ties. No changes

Disturb the quiet of my mind, or impair my rest.

For ten years now body and mind

Have rested in hermit peace.

And all the more, in these last lingering years,

What I shall need is little:

A single rug to keep me warm in winter,

One meal to last me through the day.

No matter that my house is small;

One cannot sleep in two rooms at once!

No matter that I have few horses,

One cannot ride in two coaches at once!

Few are as fortunate as I am, among the peoples of the world;

Even fools are wise in the affairs of others;

In their own business even sages err.

To have little and to want no more

Is to be rich, and wise, and free.

31

We are growing old together, you and I,

Let us ask ourselves, what age is like?

The dull eye is closed before night falls,

The idle head is still uncombed at noon;

Propped on a staff we sometimes shuffle

From the southern porch to the garden gate;

Or sit all day behind closed doors.

One dare not look in the mirror’s polished face,

One cannot read small-letter books.

Deeper and deeper grows the love of old friends,

Fewer and fewer one’s dealings with young men.

One thing only, the pleasure of idle talk,

And summoning of memories,

Remains great as ever, when you and I meet.

32

What is the best course for me now,

But to take my belongings to the tavern

And sit there happily with a wine cup.

Let me avoid the company of false hearts,

Let me wash my own heart clean

Of all the stains that worldliness brings;

Let me have no companions

But a flask of wine and a book.

If I lift my cloak above the world’s dust

I shall rise far up, in independence,

Like the crown of the tall cypress.

When I see the cup-bearer’s face

And the wine gleaming in the cup

I feel ashamed of the worldly things I boasted of.

My slight frame is not able to bear this grief,

Now that she is gone: my poor heart cannot bear

The burden of her absence.

Think of me as a carouser in the wine-house,

Do not trouble my grieving heart,

For if I complain others will seek vengeance;

The dust of injury lies on my heart,

Yet I would not sully its bright mirror

Filled with the image of love.

33

Dawn’s breeze returns

And with it the lapwing

Returning from the southern desert;

I hear again the dove’s song

Singing softly of roses;

The tulip who understands the lily’s whispers

Has returned

And the friend whom the poet wronged

Has forgiven him and returns too,

Walking to his door with soft returning tread.

34

I cannot cease desiring until my desire is requited;

Until my mouth has tasted my love’s red mouth,

Or until from these lips that sought her lips

The breath has fled. Others may find an equal love;

On her doorstep I have laid myself down,

To be covered by dust when life and love

Have mingled and together flown.

35

My breath is ready to depart; but the grief in my heart,

Beating there without cease, refuses to let it go.

For she will not once give, not once,

With her sweet mouth, the peace my longing craves;

My breathing is a single long drawn sigh,

For the thought of her red mouth burns me like fire;

When will that mouth come close and whisper

What this longing heart desires to hear?

36

When I am gone open my tomb to see

The smoke that rises from it to wreathe about your feet,

For even there my heart will be burning for you:

Even from my funeral cloths the smoke will rise.

Oh beloved, come to the meadows waiting for your feet,

So that the thorns might blossom into flowers,

And fruit come to the boughs which have known

Perpetual winter only since you went away.

37

I search the gardens to find petals

As soft and perfumed as your cheek;

The west wind fans the meadows,

In every garden the poet seeks your face,

Asking you to show yourself, to dazzle the world

And all who dwell in it

With your loveliness.

Each curl of your luxurious tresses

Is a hook that catches my heart.

My heart is torn into a thousand wounds by those barbs,

From each a red drop starts, and earns the praise

Of other sad lovers, who understand

The poet’s longings and his sighs.

38

Everything around me shines like the moon;

Everything is scented with benediction.

How beautiful is life; and how beautiful are you,

Young girl, you who are like a thought of peace:

Your beauty belongs to all time.

O let us hate only war and destruction.

When we walk by the river at sunset,

When the water ripples and we hear the boatman’s song

From where the white sails flutter, far off,

We will know that his words are true:

Today by the river as we walk hand in hand

There is no suffering,

Today there is only the scented world,

Shining like your beauty, like the moon.

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