Jia Dao

When I questioned your pupil, under a pine-tree,

"My teacher," he answered, " went for herbs,

But toward which corner of the mountain,

How can I tell, through all these clouds ?"

Poem translator: Kiang Kanghu

Cane in hand, I gaze on fine snow;

Cloud on cloud spreads over the creek.

To snow-covered cots woodmen go;

The sun sets on the frowning peak.

In the wildfire bums the grass dried;

Mid rocks and pines smoke and mist rise.

Back to the temple by the hillside,

I hear bells ring in evening skies.

To build one pond, a thousand homes you raze;

Forgo the useful trees for roses’ vain parades.

But autumn comes, the rose its glory sheds,

And all the court with thorny ruin spreads.

A quiet house, with scarcely a neighbor near;

A path through grasses to a garden left to sere.

Birds in the trees beside the pool are now at rest;

A monk knocks at the door, under the moon’s pale crest.

I cross the little bridge — the land’s wide hue I share;

I move a stone — the very roots of clouds stir there.

I go, but I shall come again. This be our vow,

Kept in the heart’s deep silence, as I leave you now.

The family's living up Brocade Creek,

while I've struggled off to this distant sea.

Of ten letters sent, maybe one gets through,

and when it does, it says

another year's gone by.

Those two lines cost me three years:

I chant them once and get two more, of tears.

Friend, if you don't like them…

I'll go home, and lie down,

in the ancient mountain autumn.

For ten long years, a sword I whetted,  

Its frosty blade, as yet, untried.

Today, I hold it unsheathed before you;

Of you, to whom was justice denied?

Translator:Xu Yuan-chong (许渊冲)