Part 12 (2/2)

_The Old Fisherman_

BY LUH FANG-WEN

T'ANG DYNASTY

While wandering up the river-side alone To view the landscape of my new-found home, Away from cities and the haunts of men Where I midst nature's scenes can quietly roam,

I came upon a fisher's lonely hut Ensconced within a winding of the stream, And in a boat the fisherman himself; While on his sail the sunlight sent a gleam.

Across the river stands a stately mountain Which wandering artists oft have tried to paint, But none could seize the subtle blend of colours-- Of purple blues and rose-dawn flushes faint.

Alas! the fisherman through summers many, Has gazed upon the glory of this scene, And yet his mind's unwakened to its beauty, His hand unskilled to limn its tints and sheen.

And my hand, too, alas! has lost its cunning And cannot serve my brain as in my youth, So men will lose another glorious picture Of Nature with her beauty and her truth.

_Midnight in the Garden_

BY LIU TSONG-YUEN

T'ANG DYNASTY (ANCIENT STYLE)

The midnight hours were pa.s.sing And sleep still past me flew; My mind--so keenly working-- Could hear the dropping dew.

So from my bed arising I open wide the door-- The western park revealing, And hills that heavenward soar.

Across the Eastern ranges The clear moon coldly s.h.i.+nes On bamboos, loosely scattered, And trailing mountain vines.

And so intense the stillness, That from the distant hills I hear the pigeons cooing, And murmuring streams and rills.

For hours I have been thinking, As in a silent dream, And now beyond the mountains I see the dawn's first gleam.

_Reflections on the Brevity of Life_

POET'S NAME UNKNOWN: HAN DYNASTY OR EARLIER (206 B.C.-220 A.D.)

We sought the city by the Eastern gate, Our chariot moving at a leisured rate, Along the road on which the sunlight weaves The trembling of the willow's rustling leaves.

And far away are pine-trees towering high, Beneath whose shade the graves of heroes lie; In Hades now their last long sleep they take, From which a mortal never more shall wake.

How vast the gulf between the quick and dead!

Yet as the morning dew our life is sped; The rocks and hills enduring strength retain, But mortals pa.s.s in fast and endless train.

Alas! the sages are inert to trace Beyond the grave the future of our race; Alchemic nostrums, too, are used in vain, They cannot turn life's ills to endless gain.

Then let us drain the goblet while we live, And take the best the fleeting hour can give.

In life a little pleasure may be won, To-morrow we must die and there'll be none.

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