诗 Poetry
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(Tang dynasty) On an autumn night, Li Bai, far from home, lifts his gaze to the moon within his room, and is filled with longing for his distant hometown.
床前明月光，
疑是地上霜。
举头望明月，
低头思故乡。Bright moonlight spills over the railing of the well, as if a layer of white frost has settled upon the ground. I cannot help but lift my head to gaze at the full moon suspended in the night sky, and instinctively bow it again in contemplation, thinking of my distant hometown.
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During the Three Kingdoms period, after Cao Pi proclaimed himself emperor, fearing the talent and political ambition of his brother Cao Zhi, he commanded him to compose a poem within seven steps, or face death.
煮豆持作羹，漉豉以为汁。
萁向釜下然，豆在釜中泣。
本是同根生，相煎何太急？
In the pot, the beans are boiling,
their husks strained away to leave the nourishing broth. The bean stalks burn beneath the pot, while the beans weep inside. Born of the same root, how can the stalks so hastily torment their own kin? -
(Tang dynasty) Written by Wen Tingyun, this lyric portrays the image of a longing wife, watching and waiting for her husband’s return, her heart heavy with sorrow and quiet resentment.
梳洗罢，独倚望江楼。
过尽千帆皆不是，斜晖脉脉水悠悠。
肠断白蘋洲。Hair dressed and robes arranged,
she leans alone on the rail of Wangjiang Tower.
A thousand sails pass—none the one she waits for.
Soft sunset light lingers on the river,
the waters flowing slow and deep.
Her longing heart drifts and coils
about the pale isle of white duckweed. -
(Tang dynasty, Li Bai) By depicting the fantastical visions of Mount Tianmu in a dream and the grand gathering of immortals, the poet weaves these images with subtle allusions to his own realities, expressing a longing for freedom and light while offering a critique of the darkness of the world.
海客谈瀛洲，烟涛微茫信难求；越人语天姥，云霞明灭或可睹。天姥连天向天横，势拔五岳掩赤城。天台四万八千丈，对此欲倒东南倾。
我欲因之梦吴越，一夜飞度镜湖月。湖月照我影，送我至剡溪。谢公宿处今尚在，渌水荡漾清猿啼。脚著谢公屐，身登青云梯。半壁见海日，空中闻天鸡。千岩万转路不定，迷花倚石忽已暝。熊咆龙吟殷岩泉，栗深林兮惊层巅。云青青兮欲雨，水澹澹兮生烟。列缺霹雳，丘峦崩摧。洞天石扉，訇然中开。青冥浩荡不见底，日月照耀金银台。霓为衣兮风为马，云之君兮纷纷而来下。虎鼓瑟兮鸾回车，仙之人兮列如麻。忽魂悸以魄动，恍惊起而长嗟。惟觉时之枕席，失向来之烟霞。
世间行乐亦如此，古来万事东流水。别君去兮何时还？且放白鹿青崖间，须行即骑访名山。安能摧眉折腰事权贵，使我不得开心颜？
Sailors speak of Yingzhou, yet across the misty vastness of the sea it is said to be impossible to find. The people of Zhejiang speak instead of Mount Tianmu, whose peaks sometimes appear through shifting clouds and glowing haze. The mountain seems to rise straight into the heavens, so lofty that it veils the sky, towering above the Five Sacred Mountains and eclipsing Chicheng. Tiantai, said to be forty-eight thousand zhang high, when facing Tianmu appears almost to bow before it from the southeast.
Trusting the words of the people of Yue, I dreamed of traveling through the lands of Wu and Yue, flying one night across Mirror Lake beneath the bright moon. The moonlight reflected my shadow on the water and carried me onward to Shan Creek. The place where Xie Lingyun once stayed still remains; the clear stream ripples gently, while the cries of mountain apes echo mournfully through the valleys. Wearing the wooden clogs once worn by Xie Lingyun, I climbed the steep path that seemed to rise straight into the clouds. At the mountain’s waist I saw the sun rising from the sea, and heard the heavenly rooster crowing in the sky. Crags piled upon crags and the path twisted endlessly without direction; enchanted by flowers and leaning upon rocks, I scarcely noticed how quickly the evening fell.
Bears roared and dragons chanted, their voices shaking the rocks and springs, making the deep forest tremble and the towering peaks shudder. Dark clouds gathered, heavy with rain; the waters stirred and mist rose in curling waves. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed as if the mountains themselves were splitting apart. Then the stone gates of the immortal palace burst open with a thunderous sound. Beyond them stretched a boundless sky without end, where the sun and moon shone upon towers built of gold and silver. Immortals rode upon the clouds, clad in rainbows and driven by the pure wind as their steeds. One after another they descended—tigers played the zither, phoenixes turned their chariots, and immortals gathered in countless ranks, as dense as hemp.
Suddenly my soul trembled and my spirit wavered; startled awake, I could not help but sigh deeply. When I opened my eyes, only the pillow and mat remained before me, and the misty visions I had seen had vanished. The pleasures of the human world are much like this dream, for since ancient times all things have flowed away like waters running eastward. Now I part from my friends in Donglu, yet who knows when I shall return again? For the moment I will set my white deer free among the green cliffs, and when the time comes to travel I shall ride it to seek out the famous mountains. How could I ever bow and bend myself to serve the powerful, and let my heart lose its joy and my face its smile?
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The Tang poet Du Fu lived during a time of great social turmoil. In the second year of Shangyuan (761) under the reign of Emperor Suzong of Tang, the military general Hua Jingding had gained merit for suppressing a rebellion. Yet emboldened by his achievements, he grew arrogant and undisciplined, allowing his soldiers to plunder widely across Eastern Shu and behaving with unchecked pride and lawlessness. Even more outrageous, he disregarded the regulations of the imperial court and presumptuously used music that was reserved exclusively for the Son of Heaven. Witnessing this, Du Fu, concerned with upholding the order and dignity of the court, composed the poem 赠花卿, employing a restrained and indirect tone to satirize and admonish Hua Jingding’s conduct.
锦城丝管日纷纷，半入江风半入云。
此曲只应天上有，人间能得几回闻。
In Jin’guan City the music drifts softly day after day; half of it rides away upon the river wind, while the other half floats upward into the clouds. Such melodies should belong only to the heavens—how often could the people of this mortal world ever hope to hear them?
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In June of the tenth year of the Yuanhe era (815), regional military governors of the Tang dynasty sent assassins to Chang’an to attack Chancellor Wu Yuanheng, and also wounded the Censor-in-Chief Pei Du, causing an uproar both inside and outside the court. Seizing the opportunity, the governors demanded Pei Du’s dismissal to appease their discontent. Bai Juyi petitioned the court, urging a thorough investigation into the assassins, but he was accused of “overstepping his authority.”
元和十年，予左迁九江郡司马。
明年秋，送客湓浦口，闻舟中夜弹琵琶者，听其音，铮铮然有京都声。
问其人，本长安倡女。
曹二善才，年长色衰，委身为贾人妇。
遂命酒，使快弹数曲。
曲罢悯然，自叙少小时欢乐事，今漂沦憔悴，转徙于江湖间。
予出官二年，恬然自安，感斯人言，是夕始觉有迁谪意。
因为长句，歌以赠之，凡六百一十六言，命曰《琵琶行》。
浔阳江头夜送客，枫叶荻花秋瑟瑟。
主人下马客在船，举酒欲饮无管弦。
醉不成欢惨将别，别时茫茫江浸月。
忽闻水上琵琶声，主人忘归客不发。
寻声暗问弹者谁，琵琶声停欲语迟。
移船相近邀相见，添酒回灯重开宴。
千呼万唤始出来，犹抱琵琶半遮面。
转轴拨弦三两声，未成曲调先有情。
弦弦掩抑声声思，似诉平生不得志。
低眉信手续续弹，说尽心中无限事。
轻拢慢捻抹复挑，初为《霓裳》后《六幺》。
大弦嘈嘈如急雨，小弦切切如私语。
嘈嘈切切错杂弹，大珠小珠落玉盘。
间关莺语花底滑，幽咽泉流冰下难。
冰泉冷涩弦凝绝，凝绝不通声暂歇。
别有幽愁暗恨生，此时无声胜有声。
银瓶乍破水浆迸，铁骑突出刀枪鸣。
曲终收拨当心画，四弦一声如裂帛。
东船西舫悄无言，唯见江心秋月白。
沉吟放拨插弦中，整顿衣裳起敛容。
自言本是京城女，家在虾蟆陵下住。
十三学得琵琶成，名属教坊第一部。
曲罢曾教善才服，妆成每被秋娘妒。
五陵年少争缠头，一曲红绡不知数。
钿头银篦击节碎，血色罗裙翻酒污。
今年欢笑复明年，秋月春风等闲度。
弟走从军阿姨死，暮去朝来颜色故。
门前冷落鞍马稀，老大嫁作商人妇。
商人重利轻别离，前月浮梁买茶去。
去来江口守空船，绕船月明江水寒。
夜深忽梦少年事，梦啼妆泪红阑干。
我闻琵琶已叹息，又闻此语重唧唧。
同是天涯沦落人，相逢何必曾相识！
我从去年辞帝京，谪居卧病浔阳城。
浔阳地僻无音乐，终岁不闻丝竹声。
住近湓江地低湿，黄芦苦竹绕宅生。
其间旦暮闻何物？杜鹃啼血猿哀鸣。
春江花朝秋月夜，往往取酒还独倾。
岂无山歌与村笛，呕哑嘲哳难为听。
今夜闻君琵琶语，如听仙乐耳暂明。
莫辞更坐弹一曲，为君翻作《琵琶行》。
感我此言良久立，却坐促弦弦转急。
凄凄不似向前声，满座重闻皆掩泣。
座中泣下谁最多？江州司马青衫湿。
In the tenth year of the Yuanhe era, I was demoted to serve as Sima of Jiujiang Commandery. The following autumn, I went to the mouth of the Pen River to see off a guest when I heard a woman playing the pipa on a neighbouring boat. Listening carefully, her music rang with a clear, vibrant tone reminiscent of the capital. I asked about her background and learned that she was a singing girl from Chang’an who had once studied under the famed pipa masters Mu and Cao. As she aged and lost her youthful beauty, she married a merchant. I had wine brought and invited her to play several pieces.
After she performed, her expression was sorrowful as she recounted the joys of her youth. Now, drifting and worn, she wandered along the rivers and lakes in a state of desolation. Though I had served as a local official for two years and usually kept a calm heart, her words moved me deeply, and for that night I felt the pangs of exile. Moved, I composed this seven-character song, which I sang in her honour, a work of six hundred and sixteen characters titled The Song of the Pipa.
On that autumn night at the head of the Xunyang River, I went to see off a returning guest. The cold wind stirred the maple leaves and the reeds, carrying the melancholy of the season. We dismounted and held a farewell feast on the boat, raising cups to drink yet lacking the music to enliven the mood. The wine failed to cheer us, and parting drew grief ever sharper. As night deepened, the river reflected the bright autumn moon, when suddenly came the clear, crisp sound of a pipa from the river. I forgot my returning guest and did not wish to leave. Following the sound, we sought its source; the pipa fell silent for a long while. Moving the boat closer, we invited her to join us and ordered the servants to add more wine and relight the lamps.
After repeated calls, she slowly emerged, holding her pipa, half-shielding her face. Tightening the tuning pegs, she plucked a few notes; even before a full melody emerged, the emotion was palpable. Every string spoke of sorrow and reflection, as if recounting a lifetime of frustrations. She played without pause, letting her music tell the story of all her past. Gently pressing, plucking, sliding, lifting and striking, she began with The Rainbow Skirt and Feathered Coat and moved on to Liu Yao. The thick strings roared like sudden storms; the thin strings whispered like intimate voices. The contrasting sounds intertwined, like strings of pearls falling on a jade plate, like orioles singing beneath flowers, like a spring trickling painfully beneath ice. At times the music seemed frozen, stopping yet carrying a subtle, sorrowful undercurrent more moving than sound itself. At other moments it burst like water from a cracked silver vase, or charged like cavalry, the clash of swords echoing.
When the piece ended, she swept the plectrum across the central strings; the sound thundered as if tearing cloth. All the boats fell silent, the autumn moon mirrored in the river. She paused, inserted the plectrum in her strings, and composed herself with dignity. She told us she had once been a celebrated singing girl from Chang’an, born in Xiama Ling, southeast of the city. By thirteen she had mastered the pipa and joined the foremost troupe of the Jiao Fang ensemble. Each performance impressed the masters, yet drew envy from fellow singers. Wealthy patrons competed to offer gifts of red silk after her performances; hairpins and silver combs often broke, red skirts stained with wine, yet she never regretted them. Year after year passed in laughter and play, the seasons slipping away. Her family ruined, her youth faded, and she married a merchant who valued profit over love. Last month he went to Fuliang for the tea trade, leaving her alone at the river’s edge, with the autumn moon as her companion.
Late at night, she often dreamt of youthful revels, waking to tears staining her powdered face. Hearing the sorrow in her pipa had already moved me to sigh; listening to her story now brought even deeper grief. Both of us, exiled and wandering, found in that night a shared understanding—why ask whether we had known each other before? Since I left the bustling capital last year and took up residence by the Xunyang River, often ill, life here was barren, devoid of music, with only the cries of cuckoos and apes. The spring flowers and autumn moons were beautiful, yet powerless to console; only solitary drinking remained. Tonight, hearing her pipa, speaking her heart, it was as if I listened to celestial music, eyes bright, ears attentive. I urged her to play once more, for I would compose a new poem, The Song of the Pipa. Deeply moved, she stood long, then sat again, tightening her strings and plucking urgent notes. The sound, piercing and sorrowful, no longer resembled the earlier music; those present wept openly. As for who wept the most, I, Sima of Jiangzhou, soaked my robe with tears.
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(Tang dynasty, Li Bai) The poem depicts Emperor Xuanzong and Yang Guifei enjoying the flowers at the pavilion, reflecting the poet’s impressions of the grandeur and splendor of the imperial court, while also hinting at the poet's complex feelings toward the many rules and constraints within palace life.
名花倾国两相欢，常得君王带笑看。
解释春风无限恨，沉香亭北倚阑干。
The peerless beauty and the crimson peonies complement each other perfectly, often bringing a radiant smile to the emperor’s face as he gazes upon them. The phrase “spring wind brings boundless regret” can be interpreted as expressing this fleeting sorrow of beauty, while in the Chenxiang Pavilion, they both lean together against the northern railing.
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Luo Yin lived during the politically corrupt late Tang period. Having repeatedly failed the imperial examinations, his poetry often expresses dissatisfaction with reality. With a heart full of indignation and a sharp, incisive pen, he exposed the ugliness of the world, criticized political corruption, and gave voice to the frustration and anger within his chest.
得即高歌失即休，多愁多恨亦悠悠。
今朝有酒今朝醉，明日愁来明日愁。
When fortune smiles, sing aloud and celebrate; when it does not, let it be—worries and resentments ignored, joy remains. If there is wine today, drink deeply and revel in drunken delight; tomorrow’s troubles can wait until tomorrow.
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This poem was composed by the Tang poet Wang Wei upon bidding farewell to his friend Yuan’er, who was departing for the northwestern frontier.
渭 城 朝 雨 浥 轻 尘 ， 客 舍 青 青 柳 色 新 。
劝 君 更 尽 一 杯 酒 ， 西 出 阳 关 无 故 人 。
The morning rain at Weicheng has moistened the dust along the road, and the willows beside the guesthouse appear especially green and fresh. I urge you to take one more cup of wine, for once you pass west of Yangguan, it will be hard to meet old friends again.
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This poem was composed by the Tang poet Li Shangyin. At the time, he was feeling depressed, and as evening approached, troubled by his emotions, he rode his carriage up Leyou Plain. Living in the late Tang period of national decline, Li Shangyin harbored great ambitions, yet found them difficult to realise.
向晚意不适，驱车登古原。
夕阳无限好，只是近黄昏。
As evening fell, I was in low spirits and rode alone up Leyou Plain. The sunset was indeed beautiful, yet it was already twilight.
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This poem was composed by the Tang poet Du Mu. Although his official career was full of setbacks, Du Mu had a passion for travel and exploration.
远 上 寒 山 石 径 斜 ， 白 云 生 处 有 人 家 。
停 车 坐 爱 枫 林 晚 ， 霜 叶 红 于 二 月 花 。
The narrow mountain path winds steeply up to the summit, and among the swirling white clouds, a few households can be glimpsed. Drawn by the beauty of the maple forest in the evening, I halted my carriage, for the frost-kissed leaves surpass even the brilliance of flowers in February.
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This poem was composed by the Tang poet Li Shangyin. At the time, the fierce struggle between the Niu and Li factions—essentially dominated by eunuchs—cast a shadow over politics, leading to the erosion of Emperor Xianzong’s authority. Li Shangyin spent his life caught in the midst of these factional conflicts, perpetually frustrated and unable to realise his ambitions.
云 母 屏 风 烛 影 深 ， 长 河 渐 落 晓 星 沉 。
嫦 娥 应 悔 偷 灵 药 ， 碧 海 青 天 夜 夜 心 。
Sitting quietly alone before the mica screen, the flickering candlelight casts deep shadows, while the Milky Way slowly sinks and the morning stars fade away. Perhaps Chang’e now regrets having stolen the elixir of immortality, left to face the endless blue sky and sea, night after night, her lonely heart enduring its eternal torment.
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This poem was composed in the autumn of the first year of the Dali era (766) under Emperor Daizong of Tang. In his later years, wandering from place to place, Du Fu keenly felt the long journey of his life alongside poetry, a companionship that had begun when he first wrote verses at the age of seven.
文章千古事，得失寸心知。
作者皆殊列，名声岂浪垂。
骚人嗟不见，汉道盛于斯。
前辈飞腾入，余波绮丽为。
后贤兼旧列，历代各清规。
法自儒家有，心从弱岁疲。
永怀江左逸，多病邺中奇。
騄骥皆良马，骐驎带好儿。
车轮徒已斫，堂构惜仍亏。
漫作潜夫论，虚传幼妇碑。
缘情慰漂荡，抱疾屡迁移。
经济惭长策，飞栖假一枝。
尘沙傍蜂虿，江峡绕蛟螭。
萧瑟唐虞远，联翩楚汉危。
圣朝兼盗贼，异俗更喧卑。
郁郁星辰剑，苍苍云雨池。
两都开幕府，万宇插军麾。
南海残铜柱，东风避月支。
音书恨乌鹊，号怒怪熊罴。
稼穑分诗兴，柴荆学土宜。
故山迷白阁，秋水隐黄陂。
不敢要佳句，愁来赋别离。
Literary creation is a matter of ages past, yet the trials, triumphs, and sorrows of the process are known only to the creator. Writers of every era belong to different schools, and their reputations do not pass lightly into posterity. Sadly, authors of the Sao style, exemplified by Qu Yuan, have all long since departed, while the five- and seven-character poems that arose in the Han dynasty continue to flourish. The poets of earlier generations possessed the grandeur of the Jian’an style, yet later writers often fell into merely ornate forms. Subsequent literati drew upon the experiences of their predecessors, each era governed by its own creative principles.
Poetic tradition stems from Confucian learning. From childhood, I was nurtured in my family’s scholarly teachings, yet often felt my own inspiration flagging. I have always admired the ethereal elegance of the Eastern Jin poets, yet illness and hardship kept me mired in the rugged, dramatic styles of Ye. The literary talents of Jiangzuo and Ye were like exceptional steeds, passing poetic knowledge down through generations, much as Cao Cao and his sons transmitted the art of poetry. Though my own skill is honed like a wheelwright shaping wheels, I regret that I cannot pass my craft to my descendants. Friends may praise me as insightful as Wang Fu in Qianfu Lun or as exquisite as Handan Chun in the Cao E Stele, yet such accolades are empty. I can only express my feelings through poetry, finding solace in my wanderings, sick and restless amid a troubled world.
Shu is rife with venomous creatures in the dust and sand, while dragons lurk between the gorges; the environment is perilous. The peaceful ages of Tang and Yu have long passed, and now a chaotic era akin to the Chu-Han conflicts returns. In the so-called “sage’s court,” thieves roam freely, and remote regions are wild and unruly. Military banners stretch like the stars, the sword’s edge cleaves the sky, and storm clouds gather over the waters. Chang’an and Luoyang raise their armies, their flags blotting out the sun. The bronze pillars set up by Ma Yuan in the South Sea have been destroyed, and the Tibetans encroach like an east wind avoiding Yuezhi. News is scarce; the cries of crows and magpies are no comfort, while bears and tigers roar in the wilderness, adding to the sorrow. Farming disperses poetic inspiration, yet the life in a humble cottage teaches me to adapt to local ways.
Looking toward the distant mountains, the White Pavilion Peak is hazy; the autumn waters reflect Huangpi, but the old scenes are lost. I dare not hope for perfect verses, and can only compose parting poems amid my melancholy.
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This poem was composed in the seventh year of the Tianbao era (748) under Emperor Xuanzong of Tang. At thirty-seven, Du Fu had been confined to Chang’an for three years. In this twenty-two-rhyme long poem, he bade farewell to Wei Ji, expressing his frustration that “scholarly honours often bring misfortune,” and declaring his resolve to retire to the rivers and seas.
纨绔不饿死，儒冠多误身。
丈人试静听，贱子请具陈。
甫昔少年日，早充观国宾。
读书破万卷，下笔如有神。
赋料扬雄敌，诗看子建亲。
李邕求识面，王翰愿卜邻。
自谓颇挺出，立登要路津。
致君尧舜上，再使风俗淳。
此意竟萧条，行歌非隐沦。
骑驴十三载，旅食京华春。
朝扣富儿门，暮随肥马尘。
残杯与冷炙，到处潜悲辛。
主上顷见征，欻然欲求伸。
青冥却垂翅，蹭蹬无纵鳞。
甚愧丈人厚，甚知丈人真。
每于百僚上，猥颂佳句新。
窃效贡公喜，难甘原宪贫。
焉能心怏怏，只是走踆踆。
今欲东入海，即将西去秦。
尚怜终南山，回首清渭滨。
常拟报一饭，况怀辞大臣。
白鸥没浩荡，万里谁能驯？
The pampered sons of the wealthy will never starve, yet scholars often see their prospects undone. Please, listen patiently as I, humble and lowly, lay out the truth. In my youth, I, Du Fu, already served as a useful guest at the court. I had studied over ten thousand scrolls, and when I took up the brush, my writings seemed inspired. My prose could rival Yang Xiong, my poetry approached the heights of Cao Zhi. Li Yong sought my acquaintance, Wang Han wished to be my neighbour. At that time, I considered my talent outstanding, confident I would soon rise to high office, assisting the ruler like Yao and Shun, restoring virtue and harmony to the world.
Yet my ambitions met neglect. Though I did not retire into seclusion, I could only wander, singing my sorrows aloud. Riding my little donkey for thirteen years, I drifted, lodging and dining in the bustling capital. Morning after morning, I knocked on the doors of the wealthy; evening after evening, I followed the carriages of the powerful. A cup of leftover wine, a slice of cold meat—these small comforts could not mask the bitterness and sorrow I carried within. Soon the emperor issued an edict calling me to serve, and suddenly I thought my ambitions might find expression. Yet still, like a great bird dropping its wings mid-flight, like a fish failing to leap over the Dragon Gate, I was held back.
I feel deep shame for any concern I have caused you, and I fully appreciate your sincerity toward me. You have often, among your subordinates, honoured me by reciting my new poems. Privately, I have felt joy as if a sage were on the throne, yet I could not content myself with the humble poverty I endured, like the former officials of the past. My heart has long been restless, pacing and striving without progress. Now I long to journey east to the sea, yet westward from Chang’an I must also go. I still cherish Zhongnan Mountain, and glance back at the banks of the Wei River. I am ever mindful of the debt of a shared meal, and above all, I come full of sentiment to bid farewell to you, a minister of integrity. Like a white gull vanishing into the vast misty waters, soaring for thousands of miles, who could ever bind or restrain me?
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(Tang dynasty) At the time, Li Bai, invited by his friend Yuan Danqiu, travelled to a retreat on Mount Song to meet with Cen Xun. While the three of them drank and conversed freely, this poem was composed.
君不见黄河之水天上来，奔流到海不复回。
君不见高堂明镜悲白发，朝如青丝暮成雪。
人生得意须尽欢，莫使金樽空对月。
天生我材必有用，千金散尽还复来。
烹羊宰牛且为乐，会须一饮三百杯。
岑夫子，丹丘生，将进酒，杯莫停。
与君歌一曲，请君为我倾耳听。
钟鼓馔玉不足贵，但愿长醉不愿醒。
古来圣贤皆寂寞，惟有饮者留其名。
陈王昔时宴平乐，斗酒十千恣欢谑。
主人何为言少钱，径须沽取对君酌。
千金裘，呼儿将出换美酒，与尔同销万古愁。
Can you not see the waters of the Yellow River descending from the heavens, surging eastward to the sea, never to return? Can you not see your reflection in the great hall’s polished mirror, hair black as morning yet turned snowy white by evening? When life offers us delight, we must seize it fully, never let the cup be empty beneath the bright moon. Heaven has endowed me with talent, and it will surely have its use; even if a fortune is spent, it will be renewed. Roast the lamb, slaughter the ox, and revel in the joy before us; we should drink three hundred cups in a single bout.
Mr Cen Xun, Mr Yuan Danqiu, let us drink without pause. Raise your cups and do not set them down. Let me sing to you, and I ask you to listen closely. What worth is there in the pursuit of wealth and status? I wish only for endless intoxication and pleasure, never the awakening. Since ancient times, sages have often been overlooked, yet those who immerse themselves in fine wine are remembered with lasting fame. In times past, Chen Wang and Cao Zhi held banquets at Pingle Hall, drinking rare vintages and reveling in unrestrained delight. Yuan Danqiu, why speak of lacking funds? Without hesitation, buy the finest wine so that we may drink together. Let the precious five-coloured horse, let the exquisite furs, be exchanged by servants for the wine; together we shall cast away the sorrows of all eternity.
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(Tang dynasty) It is believed that this poem was composed in the spring of the tenth year of the Tianbao era (751), just before Cen Shen was to return eastward from Anxi.
东望望长安，正值日初出。
长安不可见，喜见长安日。
长安何处在？只在马蹄下。
明日归长安，为君急走马。
Looking eastward, I hope to catch sight of Chang’an, just as the sun rises. Though Chang’an itself remains unseen, I am cheered by the sunlight emerging from the city. And where is Chang’an? It lies beneath the hooves of my horse. Tomorrow I shall return to Chang’an, and to see you as soon as possible, I will spur my horse day and night, riding swiftly without pause.
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This poem was composed in the fifth year of the Dazhong era (851) under Emperor Xuanzong of Tang. At the time, Li Shangyin was serving as a judge in the staff of Lu Hongzhi, the military governor of Wuning Command in Xuzhou.
相见时难别亦难，东风无力百花残。
春蚕到死丝方尽，蜡炬成灰泪始干。
晓镜但愁云鬓改，夜吟应觉月光寒。
蓬山此去无多路，青鸟殷勤为探看。
Meeting is hard, parting even harder, especially in this late spring when the east wind is weak and the flowers have withered. Like silkworms that spin their cocoons until death, the silk is only fully drawn at the end; like candles that burn down to ash, the tears of wax drip only when it is spent. In the morning, I dress and look into the mirror, worried that my hair, like clouds, will change colour and that my beauty will fade. Through long nights, I recite poems in solitude, sleepless, feeling the chill of the moon seep in. Mount Penglai is not far from here, yet there is no path to reach it; I can only entreat a messenger, like a diligent bluebird, to go and explore on my behalf.
