In the Ancient Style
A noble departs on a distant journey— Saddle and steed gleam and fade. In her tower of jade, the melancholy girl, Strangles her tears, forbids them to fall. The thought of him will not depart— I would flit after him, but have no wings. The cold bell tolls its tardy knell: When will the eastern sky grow bright? Winter locks the earth and heaven tight, Dragon and serpent coiled in their deep chambers sleep. The world's path turns and doubles back— Yet the noble man endures his poverty. Before my empty window, distant peaks are arrayed, White clouds drift across the clear sky. Whether cursed or praised, I greet no guests— I play the zither and send off the flying geese. A faithful friend dwells in the mountains, Sending me a letter on white silk. If one could learn the hermit's way, Then truly this world is but an inn. Yet robes and rank hold no appeal, And I cannot dwell with stone and tree. Better then to drink my wine And let life and death flow as they will. I find joy in the clear morning's idleness— Nine days of ten I keep the blinds drawn. Sometimes I venture out upon the common road, Rein in my horse to watch the rushing crowd: Those hurrying fellows chasing fame, Those flamboyant youths and gilded sons— I return to my yellow books, Laugh once, and smile to myself again.