Tao Qian — Pallbearer’s Song

Pallbearer’s Song

Tao Qian

365-427 CE
(translated by William P. Coleman)

Wild grass, how vast, vast;
White poplars too, sighing, sighing.

Harsh frost has come in the middle of the ninth month,
and you send me off in the distant countryside.

On all sides, there’s no one living:
just tall tombs towering, in rows.

So the horse lifts his head and neighs;
So the wind, alone, blows bleakly.

The dark chamber — once it’s already closed,
in a thousand years, the dawn will not come again.

In a thousand years, the dawn will not come again,
and the sages, the wise — they cannot help —

it’s in the past. People see each other off
and each person returns home —

the relatives. Perhaps their sorrow stays;
but they’ve already sung for other people,

dead and gone now. Where gone?
Entrust the body to a fold in the mountains.

Tao Qian — Returning to Live in the South 1

Returning to Live in the South 1

Tao Qian

365-427 CE
(translated by William P. Coleman)

Young, the rhythm of the crowd didn’t suit me;
my nature originally loved hills, mountains.

By mistake, I fell into a dusty net,
and that way 13 years went by.

A caged bird longs for his old trees;
A pond fish longs for water.

I’ve opened barren ground at the south field’s border,
and, simpleminded again, returned to the garden farm.

Surrounding the house is perhaps an acre and a half;
it’s a thatched house, 8 or 9 spans in size.

Elms and willows make shade behind the eaves;
peach and plum trees line up in front of the hall.

Dim, distant are the people in their village,
their chimneys give up thin smoke to dilute in the air.

Dogs bark in the backs of alleys —
A rooster fusses at the top of a mulberry tree.

My house’s yard has no dust of confusion;
its bare rooms remain at leisure.

For a long time I was in the interior of a cage,
now I return again to what’s real.

Tao Qian — Returning to Live in the South 5

Returning to Live in the South 5

Tao Qian

365-427 CE
(translated by William P. Coleman)

Disappointed, distressed, on a lone cane I come home
over a rugged path passing some bushes along a curve.
A mountain stream, clear and shallow,
is there to wash my feet.
I could strain a pot of new-ready wine
and, with a single chicken, invite my neighbors.
The sun enters a room that’s dark,
where bramble firewood makes do for lighted candles.
Delight comes, and the night-sadness is short:
the dawn already reaches back into the sky.

Tao Qian — Returning to Live in the South 3

Returning to Live in the South 3

Tao Qian

365-427 CE
(translated by William P. Coleman)

I sow my beans below the southern hills,
but grass flourishes, while bean seedlings are scarce.
Mornings I rise to clear tangled waste space,
then, under the moon, carry my hoe coming home.
The path is narrow, through tall grass under trees;
its evening dew dampens my clothes.
But wet clothes don’t worry me —
not enough to separate me from my dream.

Tao Qian — Drinking wine

Drinking wine

Tao Qian

365-427 CE
(translated by William P. Coleman)

I’ve made my home among people,
yet I hear no noise of cart horses.

You ask how am I able to do that?
A heart in a far place seeks its own.

I pick chrysanthemums from the east hedge
and gaze, at leisure, on South Mountain.

In this mountain air, day is beautiful — and night too;
birds fly out, then return together.

These facts all have a clear meaning;
I want to argue for my points, but already forget to speak.