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Returning to Fields and Gardens I. From youth out of step with the world By nature loving hills and mountains Snared by mistake in the dusty net Suddenly thirty years have passed The caged bird longs for the forest The pond fish pines for deeper water Clearing a field in the southern wilds I’ll stand by my stupidity, go back to farming My homestead has a little land A thatched roof to cover a mat Peaches and plums spread their limbs in front Willows and elms shade the eves in back In the hazy distance, haunts of men Smoke drifting, drifting from the little village Dogs bark in the deep lanes Roosters crow from the mulberry trees Within my doors no worldly dust Bare rooms furnished with abundant leisure For so long I was trapped inside a cage Now I return to my natural self again II. Out in the country, men’s affairs are few Wheel and harness rare in the narrow lanes When the sun is bright I close my brushwood gate Abandon all dusty thoughts in my empty rooms Now and then wandering overgrown paths Parting the grass we come and go No idle chatter when we chance to meet— Only how the hemp and mulberry grow The mulberry and the hemp grow daily taller Day by day my fields are growing broader We live in fear that frost and sleet will come And everything will wither with the weeds III. Planting beans beside South Mountain The grass grows thick, the bean sprouts thin and few At dawn setting out to tame the wasteland’s weeds Clad in moonlight, hoe on my shoulder, I return The path is narrow, trees and grasses tall My clothes are damp with the evening dew I don’t begrudge wet clothes at all If only my hopes don’t come to naught IV. Long since I’ve wandered mountains and marshes Enjoying the forest and the wilderness Today I take my children and their cousins Parting the thickets, we find a deserted village in the wilds We linger among the grave mounds Ponder the dwellings of departed men Wells and hearths are all that’s left Mulberry and bamboo rotted and decayed I ask a man who’s gathering firewood “These people—where did everybody go?” The woodcutter answers me in turn: “Dead and gone, and nothing left of them.” “In one generation, courts and cities change.” This is certainly not an empty saying Man’s life is like a magical illusion When finished, it returns to nothingness V. Sad and alone, I return with my walking stick The path twists through rough and rugged underbrush A mountain stream runs clear and shallow Here I stop and wash my feet The filter dripping with fresh wine I invite the neighbors to share a single chicken The sun goes down, the house grows dark A bramble fire serves for candlelight Joy comes, and we regret the night is short Already day is dawning once again Harvesting Early Rice in the Western Fields The aim of life is to find the Way But the Way begins with food and clothing How can you not provide for these And still seek for peace of mind? Spring begins with the usual tasks Now, come autumn, we can see the harvest I get up at dawn to do my humble work At sunset come home loaded down with grain The hills are heavy with dew and frost The air turns cold earlier there How could the life of a farmer not be hard? There’s no way to avoid the difficulty But this weariness in all four limbs Will spare us from other troubles I wash up and rest beneath the eaves A cup of wine relaxes my face, my mind Long, long ago lived Chu and Ni A thousand years, and yet we share one spirit I only hope to go on and on like this I won’t complain that my body has to plow The Bitter Cold Year Bitter cold, the twilight of the year Clutching my coat, I seek out the sun on the porch In the south garden, nothing green is growing In the north woods, branches bare and dry Tilt the bottle, not one drop remains Look in the kitchen, not one wisp of smoke Books and poems lie scattered beside my chair But the sun is sinking, no time now to read My retired life is not like the Agony in Ch’en But bitter words are heaped on this worthless head Where can my heart find comfort, then? Rely on the ancients—worthy were those men My Cottage I built my cottage where other men dwell But the clatter of horse and carriage does not intrude You ask how such a thing can be A distant soul surrounds itself with solitude Picking chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge Softly, the South Mountain rises into view The mountain air so beautiful at sunset Overhead, the homeward flocking birds Within these things is something real and true I want to explain it, but I have no words Scolding My Sons White hair now covers my temples My flesh has the firmness of mush But though I have five young, strapping sons Not one cares for paper or brush A-shu’s years now equal eight plus eight He has no equal when it comes to being lazy At fifteen, A-shuan should be reading books But poetry drives him crazy Even though they’re both thirteen Yung and Tuan can’t add six and seven T’ung-tzu is almost nine years old Hunting pears and chestnuts is his heaven Well, if that’s the way my fate has added up Pour me some more of that stuff inside this cup!
