chinese tang poems

Where was her jade-white face?Ruler and lords, when eyes would meet, wept upon their coatsAs they rode, with loose rein, slowly eastward, back to the capital....The pools, the gardens, the palace, all were just as before,The Lake Taiye hibiscus, the Weiyang Palace willows;But a petal was like her face and a willow-leaf her eyebrow --And what could he do but cry whenever he looked at them?...Peach-trees and plum-trees blossomed, in the winds of spring;Lakka-foliage fell to the ground, after autumn rains;The Western and Southern Palaces were littered with late grasses,And the steps were mounded with red leaves that no one swept away.Her Pear-Garden Players became white-hairedAnd the eunuchs thin-eyebrowed in her Court of PepperTrees;Over the throne flew fire-flies, while he brooded in the twilight.He would lengthen the lamp-wick to its end and still could never sleep.Bell and drum would slowly toll the dragging nighthoursAnd the River of Stars grow sharp in the sky, just before dawn,And the porcelain mandarin-ducks on the roof grow thick with morning frostAnd his covers of kingfisher-blue feel lonelier and colderWith the distance between life and death year after year;And yet no beloved spirit ever visited his dreams....At Lingqiong lived a Taoist priest who was a guest of heaven,Able to summon spirits by his concentrated mind.And people were so moved by the Emperor's constant broodingThat they besought the Taoist priest to see if he could find her.He opened his way in space and clove the ether like lightning,Up to heaven, under the earth, looking everywhere.Above, he searched the Green Void, below, the Yellow Spring;But he failed, in either place, to find the one he looked for.And then he heard accounts of an enchanted isle at sea,A part of the intangible and incorporeal world,With pavilions and fine towers in the five-coloured air,And of exquisite immortals moving to and fro,And of one among them-whom they called The Ever True-With a face of snow and flowers resembling hers he sought.So he went to the West Hall's gate of gold and knocked at the jasper doorAnd asked a girl, called Morsel-of-Jade, to tell The Doubly- Perfect.And the lady, at news of an envoy from the Emperor of China,Was startled out of dreams in her nine-flowered, canopy.She pushed aside her pillow, dressed, shook away sleep,And opened the pearly shade and then the silver screen.Her cloudy hair-dress hung on one side because of her great haste,And her flower-cap was loose when she came along the terrace,While a light wind filled her cloak and fluttered with her motionAs though she danced The Rainbow Skirt and the Feathered Coat.And the tear-drops drifting down her sad white faceWere like a rain in spring on the blossom of the pear.But love glowed deep within her eyes when she bade him thank her liege,Whose form and voice had been strange to her ever since their parting --Since happiness had ended at the Court of the Bright Sun,And moons and dawns had become long in Fairy-Mountain Palace.But when she turned her face and looked down toward the earthAnd tried to see the capital, there were only fog and dust.So she took out, with emotion, the pledges he had givenAnd, through his envoy, sent him back a shell box and gold hairpin,But kept one branch of the hairpin and one side of the box,Breaking the gold of the hairpin, breaking the shell of the box;"Our souls belong together," she said, " like this gold and this

While the autumn moon is pouring fullOn a thousand night-levels among towns and villages,There meet by chance, south of the river,Dreaming doubters of a dream....In the trees a wind has startled the birds,And insects cower from cold in the grass;But wayfarers at least have wineAnd nothing to fear -- till the morning bell. The pagoda, rising abruptly from earth,Reaches to the very Palace of Heaven....Climbing, we seem to have left the world behind us,With the steps we look down on hung from space.It overtops a holy landAnd can only have been built by toil of the spirit.Its four sides darken the bright sun,Its seven stories cut the grey clouds;Birds fly down beyond our sight,And the rapid wind below our hearing;Mountain-ranges, toward the east,Appear to be curving and flowing like rivers;Far green locust-trees line broad roadsToward clustered palaces and mansions;Colours of autumn, out of the west,Enter advancing through the city;And northward there lie, in five graveyards,Calm forever under dewy green grass,Those who know life's final meaningWhich all humankind must learn....Henceforth I put my official hat aside.To find the Eternal Way is the only happiness. The most talented of these were Li Shang Yin and Du Mu. Under blue mountains we wound our way,My boat and 1, along green water;Until the banks at low tide widened,With no wind stirring my lone sail....Night now yields to a sea of sun,And the old year melts in freshets.At last I can send my messengers --Wildgeese, homing to Loyang. A FAREWELL TO HAN SHEN AT THE YUNYANG INN. Where the sun has entered the western hills,I look for a monk in his little straw hut;But only the fallen leaves are at home,And I turn through chilling levels of cloudI hear a stone gong in the dusk,I lean full-weight on my slender staffHow within this world, within this grain of dust,Can there be any room for the passions of men? Flowers are shadowed, the palace darkens,Birds twitter by for a place to perch;Heaven's ten thousand windows are twinkling,And nine cloud-terraces are gleaming in the moonlight....While I wait for the golden lock to turn,I hear jade pendants tinkling in the wind....I have a petition to present in the morning,All night I ask what time it is. The sun has set in the water's clear void,And little blue islands are one with the sky.On the bank a horse neighs. After these ten torn wearisome yearsWe have met again.

district. The hermit in his lone abodeNurses his thoughts cleansed of care,Them he projects to the wild gooseFor it to his distant Sovereign to bear.Who will be moved by the sincerityOf my vain day-and-night prayer?What comfort is for my loyaltyWhen fliers and sinkers can compare? BOTH SIDES OF THE YELLOW RIVERRECAPTURED BY THE IMPERIAL ARMY. --True to the original, not altered by a hair,The meaning deep, the phrases cryptic, difficult to read.And the style of the characters neither square nor tadpole.Time has not yet vanquished the beauty of these letters --Looking like sharp daggers that pierce live crocodiles,Like phoenix-mates dancing, like angels hovering down,Like trees of jade and coral with interlocking branches,Like golden cord and iron chain tied together tight,Like incense-tripods flung in the sea, like dragons mounting heaven.Historians, gathering ancient poems, forgot to gather these,To make the two Books of Musical Song more colourful and striking;Confucius journeyed in the west, but not to the Qin Kingdom,He chose our planet and our stars but missed the sun and moonI who am fond of antiquity, was born too lateAnd, thinking of these wonderful things, cannot hold back my tears....I remember, when I was awarded my highest degree,During the first year of Yuanho,How a friend of mine, then at the western camp,Offered to assist me in removing these old relics.I bathed and changed, then made my plea to the college presidentAnd urged on him the rareness of these most precious things.They could be wrapped in rugs, be packed and sent in boxesAnd carried on only a few camels: ten stone drumsTo grace the Imperial Temple like the Incense-Pot of Gao --Or their lustre and their value would increase a hundredfold,If the monarch would present them to the university,Where students could study them and doubtless decipher them,And multitudes, attracted to the capital of cultureProm all corners of the Empire, would be quick to gather.We could scour the moss, pick out the dirt, restore the original surface,And lodge them in a fitting and secure place for ever,Covered by a massive building with wide eavesWhere nothing more might happen to them as it had before....But government officials grow fixed in their waysAnd never will initiate beyond old precedent;So herd- boys strike the drums for fire, cows polish horns on them,With no one to handle them reverentially.Still ageing and decaying, soon they may be effaced.Six years I have sighed for them, chanting toward the west....The familiar script of Wang Xizhi, beautiful though it was,Could be had, several pages, just for a few white geese,But now, eight dynasties after the Zhou, and all the wars over,Why should there be nobody caring for these drums?The Empire is at peace, the government free.Poets again are honoured and Confucians and Mencians....Oh, how may this petition be carried to the throne?It needs indeed an eloquent flow, like a cataract-But, alas, my voice has broken, in my song of the stone drums,To a sound of supplication choked with its own tears. At a little grass-hut in the valley of the river,Where a cloud seems born from a viney wall,You will love the bamboos new with rain,And mountains tender in the sunset.Cranes drift early here to restAnd autumn flowers are slow to fade....I have bidden my pupil to sweep the grassy pathFor the coming of my friend. TO MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS ADRIFTIN TROUBLED TIMES THIS POEM OF THE MOON. Chinese dynasty Tang Dynasty is considered a forceful richest dynasties, so there is the saying of Tang poetry, Song lyrics. Five-character-regular-verseSeng JiaoranNOT FINDING LU HONGXIAN AT HOME. "We are both unhappy -- to the sky's end.We meet. Han Yu (韓愈) [768- 824] was a founder of Neo-Confucianism as well as a poet, and was exiled for his views. Against the City of the Yellow DragonOur troops were sent long years ago,And girls here watch the same melancholy moonThat lights our Chinese warriors --And young wives dream a dream of spring,That last night their heroic husbands,In a great attack, with flags and drums,Captured the City of the Yellow Dragon. From a pot of wine among the flowersI drank alone. Here, where you spent your three years' exile,To be mourned in Chu ten thousand years,Can I trace your footprint in the autumn grass --Or only slanting sunlight through the bleak woods?If even good Emperor Wen was cold-hearted,Could you hope that the dull river Xiang would understand you,These desolate waters, these taciturn mountains,When you came, like me, so far away? She told me her story, heyday and then unhappiness. Add on: The Book of Songs This one-story inn at Nanjing ferryIs a miserable lodging-place for the night --But across the dead moon's ebbing tide,Lights from Guazhou beckon on the river. A SONG OF LU MOUNTAIN TO CENSOR LU XUZHOU. Since I married the merchant of QutangHe has failed each day to keep his word....Had I thought how regular the tide is,I might rather have chosen a river-boy. "We are both unhappy -- to the sky's end.We meet. FAREWELL TO A JAPANESE BUDDHIST PRIESTBOUND HOMEWARD.

Representative works: Li Bai: "Drinking Alone by Moonlight," " Tianmu Mountain Ascended in a Dream",” Hard Roads in Shu" and so on.

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